Literature: I. Robert Burns: II. Sir Walter Scott. III. Lord Byron; from the Chicago RecordJohn Ebenezer Bryant Doubleday & McClure Company, 1899 - 297 страници |
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ABBEY Abbotsford auld beautiful became beneath bonnie breast Burns Canto castle character Childe Harold Childe Harold's Pilgrimage cottage Countess Countess Guiccioli critics death deep Don Juan Doon DRYBURGH ABBEY earth Edinburgh Evan eyes fame father favorite feel Fergus genius grave Guiccioli Guy Mannering hand heart Heart of Midlothian Highland honor humor King Lady Byron land literary literature lived look Lord Byron Mac-Ivor melancholy Melrose Abbey ment mind monument mother mourn nature ne'er ness never NEWSTEAD ABBEY night novels o'er once pain passion perhaps poems poet poetic poetry poor popular pride prisoners River Tweed Robert Burns romance ruin Samian wine scarcely Scot Scotch Scotland Scottish Sir Walter Scott sister songs sorrow sweet tears thee thing thou thought Thyrza tion verse Waverley wife wild WILLIAM MINTO woman words wrote youth
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Страница 271 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Страница 272 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stern array...
Страница 275 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims aronnd him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
Страница 278 - His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay.
Страница 284 - The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
Страница 10 - I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: — If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
Страница 133 - When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave» Then go — but go alone the while — Then view St David's ruined pile; And, home returning, soothly...
Страница 132 - Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy. Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he. Who sung of Border chivalry: For, welladay!
Страница 29 - O, WERT thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.
Страница 81 - ... spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i