The Lady of the Lake: A Poem

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John Ballantyne and Company, 1810 - 433 страници
 

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My sweetheart loves Jane Austen, in every form - paper and ink, or audio readings, or DVDs of performances. In Persuasion, we are set to ponder: Lady of the Lake, or Marmion? It's a wonder to hear Sir ... Прочетете пълната рецензия

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I think this was the first of Scott's long poems I read. I recall being terrified by the "nonnday hag" while reading it in bed in my uncle's farmhouse in Maine Прочетете пълната рецензия

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Страница 118 - He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Страница 38 - Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Страница 289 - Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Страница 211 - It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell ! and ruth, begone ! — Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ; Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt — We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.
Страница 208 - No, Stranger, none; And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: 'Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party- conquers in the strife.
Страница 128 - The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken* curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary ; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid...
Страница 210 - Who ill deserved my courteous' care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair.' 'I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Страница 211 - Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again ; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Страница 99 - The torrent showed its glistening pride ; Invisible in flecked sky, The lark sent down her revelry; The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ; In answer cooed the cushat dove, Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.
Страница 16 - With boughs that quaked at every breath, Grey birch and aspen wept beneath ; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high, His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.

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