Waverly Novels: St. Rowan's well

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A. and C. Black, 1851
 

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139. oldal - Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night? I did not err, there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night...
139. oldal - O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, And thou unblemished form of Chastity! I see ye visibly, and now believe That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, To keep my life and honour unassailed.
61. oldal - Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! Hear it, good Man, old in days ! Thou Tree of covert and of rest For this young Bird that is distrest, Among thy branches safe he lay, And he was free to sport and play, When Falcons were abroad for prey.
297. oldal - But, see, his face is black, and full of blood ; His eye-balls further out than when he lived, Staring full ghastly like a strangled man : His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling : His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued.
328. oldal - And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below...
141. oldal - John Milton!' exclaimed Sir Henry, in astonishment. 'What! John Milton, the blasphemous and bloodyminded author of the "Defensio Populi Anglicani!" — the advocate of the. infernal High Court of Fiends! — the creature and parasite of that grand impostor, that loathsome hypocrite, that detestable monster, that prodigy of the universe, that disgrace of mankind, that landscape of iniquity, that sink of sin, and that compendium of baseness, Oliver Cromwell?' 'Even the same John Milton...
131. oldal - Which being tossed with the air Had force to strike his foe with fear, And turn his weapon from him. Himself he on an ear-wig set, Yet scarce he on his back could get, So oft and high he did curvet Ere he himself could settle. He made him turn, and stop, and bound, To gallop, and to trot the round; He scarce could stand on any ground, He was so full of mettle.
139. oldal - Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues, that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.

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