The Lady of the Lake

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Rand McNally, 1910 - Всего страниц: 254
 

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Стр. 17 - The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o'er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle...
Стр. 192 - It was a barren scene and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled, But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall. I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round surveyed...
Стр. 33 - No rude sound shall reach* thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.
Стр. 129 - That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will. All silent there they stood, and still. Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung, Upon the mountain-sidb they hung.
Стр. 22 - But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo ! forth starting at the sound. From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A Damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay...
Стр. 136 - Fitz-James's throat he sprung ; Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round. Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel ! They tug, they strain ! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
Стр. 66 - 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...
Стр. 43 - — she stooped, and, looking round, Plucked a blue harebell from the ground, ' For me, whose memory scarce conveys An image of more splendid days, This little flower that loves the lea May well my simple emblem be ; It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose That in the King's own garden grows; And when I place it in my hair, Allan, a bard is bound to swear Hecie'er saw coronet so fair.
Стр. 14 - I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed ! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant grey!
Стр. 14 - Unmatched for courage, breath and speed, Fast on his flying traces came, And all but won that desperate game...

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