Explore "The Buccaneer a Tale" by Ann Maria Hall on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Yet not the more / / Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt / / Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, / / Smit with the love of sacred song. / / Great things, and full of wonder, in our ears, / / Far differing from the world, thou hast revealed, / / Divine Interpreter. / / MILTON.
The morning that followed was rife with the sweet and balmy air and the gay sunshine, so duly prized in our variable climate, because of the rarity of their occurrence; more especially when the year is yet too young to assist with vigour the energies of all-industrious nature. The trees, in their faint greenery, looked cheerful as the face of childhood: the merry birds were busied after their own gentle fashion forming their dwellings in the covert and solitude of the wooded slopes which effectually sheltered Cecil Place from the chill blast of the neighbouring sea. The freshened breeze came so kindly through the thick underwood, as to be scarcely felt by the early wanderers of the upland hill or valley green.