The Lord of the Isles: A Poem

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Archibald Constable and Company, 1815 - Всего страниц: 275
 

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Стр. 127 - FOURTH. ! if e'er thine ardent step hath traced The northern realms of ancient Caledon, Where the proud Queen of Wilderness hath placed, By lake and cataract, her lonely throne ; Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath known, Gazing on pathless glen and mountain high, Listing where from the cliffs the torrents thrown Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, And with the sounding lake, and with the moaning sky.
Стр. 142 - In varied tone prolong'd and high, That mocks the organ's melody. Nor doth its entrance front in vain To old lona's holy fane, That Nature's voice might seem to say, "Well hast thou done, frail Child of clay ! Thy humble powers that stately shrine Task'd high and hard — but witness mine...
Стр. 99 - But here, — above, around, below, On mountain or in glen, Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power, , The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone...
Стр. 141 - On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea. The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, And Ulva dark and Colonsay, And all the group of islets gay That guard famed Staffa round.
Стр. 141 - By skill of earthly architect* Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise A Minster to her Maker's praise ! Not for a meaner use ascend Her columns, or her arches bend ; Nor of a theme less solemn tells That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, And still, between each awful pause, From the high vault an answer draws, In varied tone prolong'd and: high, That mocks the organ's melody.
Стр. 198 - O ! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant ! And many a word, at random spoken, , May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!
Стр. 143 - Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore Still rings to Corrievreken's roar, And lonely Colonsay ; — Scenes sung by him who sings no more ! ° His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour; — A distant and a deadly shore Has LEYDEN'S cold remains ! 12 Ever the breeze blows merrily, But the galley ploughs no more the sea.
Стр. 221 - O these were hours, when thrilling joy repaid A long, long course of darkness, doubts and fears ! The heart-sick faintness of the hope delayed.

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