The poetical works of sir Walter ScottA. & C. Black, 1882 - Всего страниц: 823 |
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Стр. 8
... blood - hounds , In Eske , or Liddel , fords were none , But he would ride them , one by one ; Alike to him was time , or tide , December's snow , or July's pride ; Alike to him was tide , or time , Moonless midnight , or matin prime ...
... blood - hounds , In Eske , or Liddel , fords were none , But he would ride them , one by one ; Alike to him was time , or tide , December's snow , or July's pride ; Alike to him was tide , or time , Moonless midnight , or matin prime ...
Стр. 10
... blood dear Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear . 31. In bitter mood he spurrèd fast , And soon the hated heath was passed ; And far beneath in lustre wan , Old Melros ' rose , and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock , with lichens ...
... blood dear Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear . 31. In bitter mood he spurrèd fast , And soon the hated heath was passed ; And far beneath in lustre wan , Old Melros ' rose , and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock , with lichens ...
Стр. 17
... blood - hound , As he ouses him up from his lair ; And , though she passes the postern alone , Why is not the watchman's bugle blown ? 27. The Ladye steps in doubt and dread , Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; The Ladye caresses ...
... blood - hound , As he ouses him up from his lair ; And , though she passes the postern alone , Why is not the watchman's bugle blown ? 27. The Ladye steps in doubt and dread , Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; The Ladye caresses ...
Стр. 19
... blood of Velez ' scorched vine . He raised the silver cup on high , And , while the big drop filled his eye , Prayed God to bless the Duchess long , And all who cheered a son of song . The attending maidens smiled to see , How long ...
... blood of Velez ' scorched vine . He raised the silver cup on high , And , while the big drop filled his eye , Prayed God to bless the Duchess long , And all who cheered a son of song . The attending maidens smiled to see , How long ...
Стр. 20
... blood was cold , And that my kindly fire was fled , And my poor withered heart was dead , And that I might not sing of love ? — How could I to the dearest theme That ever warmed a minstrel's dream , So foul , so false , a recreant prove ...
... blood was cold , And that my kindly fire was fled , And my poor withered heart was dead , And that I might not sing of love ? — How could I to the dearest theme That ever warmed a minstrel's dream , So foul , so false , a recreant prove ...
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Argentine arms band banner bard battle beneath Bertram blood blood-hound bold bore bower brand Branksome Hall brave breast breath bright Brignal brow Bruce castle cheer chieftain chivalry courser crest Dame dark deep Deloraine Douglas dread Edinburgh Annual Ettricke Forest fair falchion fame fear fell fierce fight gallant glance glen grace gray hall hand harp hast hath hear heard heart heaven honoured King knight lady Ladye land light Lochinvar lonely look Lord Marmion loud maid maiden mingled minstrel Monarch Mortham mountain ne'er noble o'er pale passed pennons pibroch pride Redmond rill Risingham rock Roderick Rokeby's Ronald round rude rung Saint scarce scene Scotland Scotland's Scottish Seneschal shore sigh sire smile song sought soul sound spear spoke steed stern stood stream sword tale tear tell thee thine thou tide toil tower train Twas twixt wake warrior wave ween wild Wilfrid wind
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Стр. 12 - O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand...
Стр. 105 - HERON'S SONG. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none ; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
Стр. 11 - BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ! — If such there breathe, go, mark him well...
Стр. 13 - The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand In many a freakish knot had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
Стр. 41 - CALL it not vain ¡—they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies : Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.
Стр. 2 - Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorned and poor, He begged his bread from door to door ; ' And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear.
Стр. 105 - Eske River where ford there was none: But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
Стр. 1 - The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, 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, well-aday! their date was fled; His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest.
Стр. 237 - That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread ? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams...
Стр. 11 - 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...