Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell, Том 2

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William Beattie
Hall, Virtue & Company, 1850

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Стр. 329 - Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Стр. 381 - LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
Стр. 252 - AT summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Стр. 381 - I have marshalled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock...
Стр. 260 - Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! , Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! The strife is o'er — the pangs of nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Стр. 224 - O gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! Oh, there beyond expression blest. I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus
Стр. 337 - Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Стр. 337 - Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Стр. 382 - Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.
Стр. 357 - Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well...

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