The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, Том 6

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Стр. 223 - With gloomy splendour red ; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow, The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high, Mine own romantic town...
Стр. 264 - So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
Стр. 373 - Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring ; The stubborn spear-men still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell.
Стр. 262 - Oh ! 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. 341 - Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire. "And this to me !" he said ; "An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas
Стр. 10 - So feeble trill'd the streamlet through : Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen, Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed.
Стр. 369 - In vain for Constance is your zeal ; She died at Holy Isle."— Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound ; Though in the action burst the tide, In torrents, from his wounded side. " Then it was truth," he said — " I knew That the dark presage must be true.— I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day ! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay.
Стр. 342 - I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied...
Стр. 149 - Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her ? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying ; Eleu loro There shall he be lying.
Стр. 342 - Lord Marmion turned — well was his need — And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous grate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending razed his plume.

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