The Manor and Parish Records of Medmenham, Buckinghamshire

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Longmans, Green and Company, 1925 - 444 pages
 

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Page 337 - Camelot; And up and down the people go Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot.
Page 19 - The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 275 - Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ;w But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
Page vi - Except the Lord build the house : their labour is but lost that build it. Except the Lord keep the city : the watchman waketh but in vain.
Page 315 - ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro.
Page 127 - We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been and might have been, And who was changed and who was dead...
Page 256 - Sundays observe : think when the bells do chime, 'Tis angels' music ; therefore come not late. God then deals blessings : if a King did so, Who would not haste, nay give, to see the show ? Twice on the day his due is understood ; For all the week thy food so oft he gave thee.
Page 195 - When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
Page 153 - Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave ; And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green, That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovelily bright In that glorious light, And I felt 'twas holy ground. Then I thought of the ancient time— The days of thy Monks of old,— When to Matin, and Vesper, and Compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And, thy courts and " long-drawn aisles " among, Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.
Page 164 - Surrey . . . to hold in satisfaction of 1 mark of the 10 /. yearly of land and rent, which they had the late king's licence to acquire...

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