The Discarded Son, Or, Haunt of the Banditti: A Tale, Том 1

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Printed at the Minerva Press, for Lane, Newman, and Company, 1807 - 348 страници
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Страница 119 - Some say no evil thing that walks by night. In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost, That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin or swart faery of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
Страница 283 - Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
Страница 57 - To the very moment that he bade me tell it; Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i...
Страница 26 - Believe me, royal youth, thy fruit must be, Or gather'd ripe, or rot upon the tree. Heav'n has to all allotted, soon or late, Some lucky revolution of their fate...
Страница 302 - And higher than that wall a circling row Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, Appear'd, with gay enamell'd colours mix'd...
Страница 80 - A combination and a form, indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man: This was your husband.
Страница 96 - What then remains, but, after past annoy, To take the good vicissitude of joy? To thank the gracious gods for what they give, Possess our souls, and while we live, to live? Ordain we then two sorrows to combine, And in one point the extremes of grief to join; That thence resulting joy may be renew'd, As jarring notes in harmony conclude.
Страница 312 - Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
Страница 271 - This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns : Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
Страница 98 - O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills! let the thick hazels be around, let the rustling oak be near. Green be the place of my rest; let the sound of the distant torrent be heard.

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