The poetical works of sir Walter ScottA. & C. Black, 1882 - Всего страниц: 823 |
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Стр. 8
... thou the Monk of St Mary's aisle . Greet the father well from me ; Say , that the fated hour is come , And to ... thou keep ; Stay not thou for food or sleep : Be it scroll , or be it book , Into it , knight , thou must not look ; If ...
... thou the Monk of St Mary's aisle . Greet the father well from me ; Say , that the fated hour is come , And to ... thou keep ; Stay not thou for food or sleep : Be it scroll , or be it book , Into it , knight , thou must not look ; If ...
Стр. 12
... thou , Warrior ! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide ? My breast , in belt of iron pent , With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn ; For threescore years , in penance spent , My knees those flinty stones have worn ; Yet all ...
... thou , Warrior ! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide ? My breast , in belt of iron pent , With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn ; For threescore years , in penance spent , My knees those flinty stones have worn ; Yet all ...
Стр. 24
... thou dost not set me free , False Southron , thou shalt dearly rue . For Walter of Harden shall come with speed , And William of Deloraine , good at need , And every Scott from Eske to Tweed ; And , if thou dost not let me go , Despite ...
... thou dost not set me free , False Southron , thou shalt dearly rue . For Walter of Harden shall come with speed , And William of Deloraine , good at need , And every Scott from Eske to Tweed ; And , if thou dost not let me go , Despite ...
Стр. 25
... thou art chief of such a clan , And art the son of such a man , And ever comest to thy command , Our wardens had need to keep good order : My bow of yew to a hazel wand , Thou'lt make them work upon the Border . Meantime , be pleased to ...
... thou art chief of such a clan , And art the son of such a man , And ever comest to thy command , Our wardens had need to keep good order : My bow of yew to a hazel wand , Thou'lt make them work upon the Border . Meantime , be pleased to ...
Стр. 32
... thou me for thy liege - lord and head ; Deal not with me as with Morton tame , For Scotts play best at the roughest game . Give me in peace my heriot due , Thy bonny white steed , or thou shalt rue . If my horn I three times wind ...
... thou me for thy liege - lord and head ; Deal not with me as with Morton tame , For Scotts play best at the roughest game . Give me in peace my heriot due , Thy bonny white steed , or thou shalt rue . If my horn I three times wind ...
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Часто встречающиеся слова и выражения
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...