Translations of English Poetry Into Latin Verse

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Arrowsmith, 1868 - Всего страниц: 202
 

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Стр. 72 - 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...
Стр. 130 - Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.
Стр. 36 - The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave...
Стр. 176 - THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;' Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Стр. 148 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Стр. 18 - THE SEA. The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies.
Стр. 168 - It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Стр. 168 - Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge With measured beat and slow ; Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
Стр. 4 - Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
Стр. 132 - Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie. Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o

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