The poetical works of sir Walter Scott. With memoir of the author

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Стр. 154 - O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; And save his good broad-sword he weapon 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. 56 - 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...
Стр. 154 - One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,
Стр. 154 - I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.
Стр. 12 - When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower ; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory...
Стр. 240 - He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Стр. 181 - England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your...
Стр. 212 - Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more : Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Стр. 194 - While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land ; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong ; Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife and carnage drear Of Flodden's fatal field. Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear And broken was her shield ! xxxv.
Стр. 64 - And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St Clair.

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