The Rhine from Its Source to the Sea, Том 2

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H. T. Coates, 1898

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Стр. 4 - And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, — And all at once to the Bishop they go.
Стр. 278 - When the black famine had brought to the death nearly six thousand persons, then God the Lord repented of it, and gave us bread again as much as we could wish).
Стр. 238 - John the Baptist was wrapped, and the linen cloth with which the Saviour was girded on the cross.
Стр. 238 - Charlemagne not reclining in his coffin, as is the usual fashion of the dead, but seated in his throne as one alive, clothed in the imperial robes, bearing the sceptre in his hand, and on his knees a copy of the Gospels. On his fleshless brow was the crown, the imperial mantle covered his shoulders, the sword joyeuse was by his side, and the pilgrim's pouch, which he had borne always while living, was still fastened to his girdle.
Стр. 50 - The loveliest wonderful Maiden On high is sitting there, With golden jewels braiden, And she combs her golden hair. With a golden comb sits combing, And ever the while sings she A marvellous song through the gloaming Of magical melody. It hath caught the boatman, and bound him In the spell of a wild sad love ; He sees not the rocks around him, He sees only her above. The waves through the pass sweep swinging, But boatman or boat is none ; And this with her mighty singing The LORELEY hath done.
Стр. 50 - Night falls as 1 linger, dreaming, And calmly flows the Rhine ; The peaks of the hills are gleaming In the golden sunset shine. A wondrous lovely maiden Sits high in glory there ; Her robe with gems is laden, And she combeth her golden hair. And she spreads out the golden treasure, Still singing in harmony ; And...
Стр. 185 - ... graves of his predecessors, that he may ascertain when his own hour of rest shall have arrived. A German poet,* who sings sweetly, has given a version of this story, of which the following is a free translation : Sadly through yon graveyard creeps The abbot, old and hoar, His long beard in the nightwind sweeps, His heart knows joy no more.
Стр. 50 - I know not what sorrow is o'er me, What spell is upon my heart; But a tale of old times is before me — A legend that will not depart. Night falls as I linger, dreaming, And calmly flows the Rhine; The peaks of the hills are gleaming In the golden sunset shine. A wondrous lovely maiden Sits high in glory there; Her robe with gems is laden, And she combeth her golden hair.
Стр. 185 - He counts the graves," they say. And ever as he counts, it seems As still were wanting one. He shakes bis hoary head, and deems Next day his race is run. Not yet is made that couch, his own Warm tears his wan cheeks lave -, When yon firm fabric's overthrown, He'll only find his grave.
Стр. 275 - ... steamers are in constant motion, keeping up communication between the harbors and bays of this forest of masts, forwarding goods to the warehouses, tugging boats and great ships in and out, ringing bells, sounding whistles, sending forth their clouds of steam and cries of warning to the smaller craft. The river, which is tidal for a considerable distance above Rotterdam, admits the largest sea-going ships to the quay of the town. All these, and a hundred other things which we cannot enumerate,...

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