THE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT

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Стр. 89 - O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood...
Стр. 285 - Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone; The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp.
Стр. 303 - The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, And — STANLEY ! was the cry. A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye ; With dying hand above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted " Victory ! Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! " Were the last words of Marmion.
Стр. 428 - Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Стр. 25 - When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go — but go alone the while...
Стр. 242 - O, 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. 352 - Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven : And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head ! XXII.
Стр. 102 - 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.
Стр. 314 - The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney's hazel shade...
Стр. 243 - 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!

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