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Стр. 161 - ... the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way ; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek ; Still lay my head by Teviot stone.
Стр. 157 - O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness...
Стр. 325 - Euphrates, and the Arabian fleet might have sailed without a naval combat into the mouth of the Thames. Perhaps the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pulpits might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of the revelation of Mahomet.
Стр. 232 - Paul seems to have taken a different view when he wrote, "the God of peace shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly
Стр. 158 - And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and changing; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over, The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover.
Стр. 157 - But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy ; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.
Стр. 186 - Choose well ; your choice is Brief, and yet endless. Here eyes do regard you, In Eternity's stillness; Here is all fulness, Ye brave, to reward you; Work, and despair not.
Стр. 159 - WHEN first, descending from the Moorlands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. When last along its banks I wandered, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathways, My steps the Border-minstrel led. The Mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; And death upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes...