The Lady of the Lake

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Scott, Foresman, 1906 - Всего страниц: 264
 

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Стр. 68 - Where glistening streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue ; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream.
Стр. 48 - He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.
Стр. 191 - Have, then, thy wish!"— he whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill ; Wild as the scream of the curlew From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe...
Стр. 72 - The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain. With head upraised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand. And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face...
Стр. 73 - E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread : What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, — Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear ! XIX.
Стр. 122 - Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore. Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store, Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be ! How few, all weak and wither'd of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight ! Time rolls his ceaseless course.
Стр. 198 - Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt, We try this quarrel hilt to hilt...
Стр. 137 - ... Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi,* Sage counsel in cumber Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain Thou art gone, and for ever ! XVII.
Стр. 192 - The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given.
Стр. 69 - And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled...

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