“ The Song of the Lark. "I do not like the comparison so well," was the answer. "Yet, after all, there is nothing so like it as a poet—as yourself, for instance.""No poet ever had its skill, because no poet was ever so free from care," said Shelley, sadly. "It is like an unbodied joy floating unrestrained whithersoever it will. Ah, Mary, if I had but half the gladness that this bird or spirit must know, I would write such poetry as would bewitch the world, and all men would listen, entranced, to my song."That night the poet could not sleep for thinking of the skylark's song. ”
Summary
The Eighth Reader, an anonymous educational text likely compiled in the 19th century, interlaces poetic musings, natural imagery, and emotional stories throughout its pages. Featuring characters such as Maggie, Tom, and Prince John, it delves into themes of nature’s beauty—embodied in birds, flowers, and the moon—while entwining human challenges, such as unrequited love and social discord.
Passages highlight a fascination with poetry as a transcendent power, alongside rich portrayals of rural existence and symbolic representations of natural elements. The work’s organization indicates a didactic aim, merging literary selections with moral and philosophical considerations to involve readers in both artistic and ethical contemplation.
Quotes from Eighth Reader ()
“ A man can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly see.""Cowardly dog!" exclaimed Prince John.—"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did so. However it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill.""'A man can but do his best!' as Hubert says," answered Locksley. ”
“ Maggie stood motionless, except for her sobs, for a minute or two; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor, and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had thought how happy she should be—and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything, if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She had never been naughty to Tom—had never meant to be naughty to him. ”
