The Lady of the Lake: With All His Introductions, Various Readings, and the Editor's Notes
Adam & Charles Black, 1853 - 375 oldal
Illustrated by numerous engravings on wood from drawings by Birket Foster and John Gilbert.
Mit mondanak mások - Írjon ismertetőt
Nem találtunk ismertetőket a szokott helyeken.
Más kiadások - Összes megtekintése
The Lady of the Lake: With All His Introductions, Various Readings, and the ...
Sir Walter Scott
Nincs elérhető előnézet - 2015
answer appear arms band battle bear beneath blood bold brand brave brow called cause chase chief Chieftain claim clan close court Cross danger dark death deep Douglas drew Ellen fair fear fell fire Fitz-James Foster gave give given glance glen grace guard hand harp head hear heard heart held Highland hill hold James John kind King knight Lady lake land length light living Loch look Lord maid means meet Minstrel morning mountain never Note o'er once pass person plaid race rest rock Roderick round scene Scotland Scottish seen side sire soon sought sound speed stand step Stirling stood stranger strong sword tear tell thee thine thou thought tide Till took true wave wild wind wood young
76. oldal - 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...
43. oldal - 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.
34. oldal - And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form or lovelier face...
123. oldal - 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.
43. oldal - ... Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ; thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille.
107. oldal - There is something of pride in the perilous hour, Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; For Fame is there to say who bleeds, And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! But when all is past, it is humbling to tread O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; All regarding man as their prey, All rejoicing in his decay.
16. oldal - The antler'd monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But, ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; Like crested leader proud and high...
29. oldal - In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light ; And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land.
24. oldal - I little thought, when first thy rein I slack'd upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed ! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant grey !
36. oldal - And seldom was a snood amid Such wild, luxuriant ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing ; And seldom o'er a breast so fair, Mantled a plaid with modest care, And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind.