The Waverley Novels, Том 3

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A. and C. Black, 1860
 

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Страница 344 - Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound, by holy vow, To bless a good man's store. Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day ; Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! And use it as ye may.
Страница 201 - The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the, knell of my departed hours : Where are they?
Страница 211 - Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.
Страница 96 - Twist ye, twine ye ! even so Mingle shades of joy and woe, Hope and fear, and peace, and strife, In the thread of human life.
Страница 109 - With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and...
Страница 152 - His eye-balls farther out than when he lived. Staring full ghastly like a strangled man : His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling ; His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued.
Страница 201 - As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they ? with the years beyond the flood. It is the signal that demands despatch. How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down — on what ? a fathomless abyss ! A dread eternity...
Страница 219 - Our Polly is a sad Slut ! nor heeds what we have taught her. I wonder any Man alive will ever rear a Daughter...
Страница 85 - The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished; They live no longer in the faith of reason.
Страница 135 - ... that your braw cradle at hame be the fairer spread up : not that I am wishing ill to little Harry, or to the babe that's yet to be born — God forbid — and make them kind to the poor, and better folk than their father ! — And now, ride e'en your ways ; for these are the last words ye'll ever hear Meg Merrilies speak, and this is the last reise * that I'll ever cut in the bonny woods of Ellangowan.

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