Smith College Classical Studies, Issue 6

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Masa., 1925 - English poetry - 192 pages
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Page 31 - Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle...
Page 159 - And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy; Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, And hew triumphal arches to the ground. What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs should feel The conquering force of unresisted steel?
Page 57 - An' forward, tho' I canna see, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem. To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonie Lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.
Page 31 - With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.
Page 57 - ... Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er. " Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven.
Page 30 - Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus, rumoresque senum severiorum omnes unius aestimemus assis. Soles occidere et redire possunt; nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda.
Page 147 - Hence, bashful cunning ! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! I am your wife, if you will marry me ; If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant, Whether you will or no.
Page 111 - Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band ! Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.
Page 57 - O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, 'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i
Page 109 - Open the temple gates unto my Love, Open them wide that she may enter in...

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