we fly to silent scenes in vain; Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain: Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream; For when the soul is labouring in despair, In vain the body breathes a purer air.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.

Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear? LONDON I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

apless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace walls But most through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

The fire would smoke in the stove at every one of these blasts, and the flame leaped in the lantern.

The raids swept on like tempest blasts; Death's scythe never knew dead season, at every hour it mowed down budding life.

Above the constant hum, there arose, from time to time, the blasts of trumpets and the symphonies of rich music.

Shouts arose, trumpets blew their blasts, and each lady waved her handkerchief, in felicitation of the happy union.

From lurking perils of the night, The desert's hidden harms, From plagues that waste, from blasts that smite, Defend thy men-at-arms!

But Care again his steps pursues; Warns him of blasts, of blighting dews, Of plund'ring insects, snails, and rains, And droughts that starved the laboured plains.

The negro deck-hand came out and pumped the hand-power whistle in three long discordant blasts.

Three violent blasts ripped over us like projectiles, and the "song of the dead men" was twanged upon the straining ropes.

Brimstone, resin, and pitch were burnt in the houses of the poor; benjamin, myrrh, and other more expensive perfumes in those of the rich; while vast quantities of powder were consumed in creating blasts to carry off the foul air.

They may have all the appliances and means of life, as these French savants carried their tents to pitch upon the summit of Mont Blanc; but the peak that looked so warm and glittering in the sunshine, and of such a rosy hue in the evening rays, was too deadly cold, and swept by blasts too fierce and cutting; they were glad to relinquish the attempt, and come down.

Boldly he placed the bugle to his lips, and blew three loud blasts.

Many lives were lost, however, as no material safeguards could obviate the danger from the elements, and no one will ever know the number of souls who met their end in the blinding snows and chilling blasts of those Alpine heights.

We have seen such invalids lodged in cold, half-furnished houses, and shivering under blasts of wind from the Alps or Apennines, who might more happily have been sheltered in the vales of Somerset or Devon.

The nice breezes we feel in summer and the roughest blasts we feel in winter in England are not so extremely strong you will say: but I am speaking, besides these, of the winds called hurricanes that arise in the West Indian Islands, and in other places in the world.

She is at the foot of Inverleith Row, and her face is to the west; she will now escape the desultory blasts by keeping close by the long running dyke.

This new acquired want, now introduced all the expensive modes of having fruit in spite of either blasts or blights.

He set the horn to his lips and blew three blasts.

Steinbeck visits a minesweeper: men hate to see blasts kill fish.

With the mercury at one hundred and twenty-five degrees at midnight, below the level of the sea, when these furnace blasts bore down upon him, it was just all he could do to live.

At last the musicians, winding tremendous blasts on their trumpets against the demon, advance and touch the post in which he is supposed to be incorporate.

So in her arms did Mother Nature fold Her poet, whispering what of wild and sweet Into his earthe state-affairs of birds, The lore of dawn and sunset, what the wind Said in the tree-topsfine, unfathomed things Henceforth to turn to music in his brain: A various music, now like notes of flutes, And now like blasts of trumpets blown in wars.