A Comprehensive Grammar of the English Language: For the Use of Schools

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Ivison, Blakeman, Taylor & Company, 1862 - 374 oldal
 

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44. oldal - And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
297. oldal - Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son : Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers...
237. oldal - And the three companies blew the trumpets and brake the pitchers and held the lamps in their left hands and the trumpets in their right hands to blow withal: and they cried, "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!
261. oldal - The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself; * Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind.
38. oldal - Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes.
297. oldal - KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime...
287. oldal - AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink ? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.
288. oldal - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more...
269. oldal - Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
269. oldal - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!

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