The poetical works of sir Walter Scott

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Страница 216 - The bride at the altar ; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges : Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded : Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master.
Страница 209 - ... pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale ; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen " — But aye she loot the tears down fa
Страница 295 - Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
Страница 293 - Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round...
Страница 204 - Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more ; In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.
Страница 252 - And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien, To warn me off from the encumbered scene. This must not be ; — and higher duties crave Some space between the theatre and the grave, That, like the Roman in the Capitol, I may adjust my mantle ere I fall : My life's brief act in public service flown, The last, the closing scene, must be my own.
Страница 285 - Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore, — Then farewell home ! and farewell friends ! Adieu each tender tie ! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die.
Страница 212 - O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose ; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
Страница 295 - With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.
Страница 28 - O ! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant ! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken...

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