The Port folio, by Oliver Oldschool (Google eBook)

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Page 59 - Yet there happened in my time one noble speaker, who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language (where he could spare or pass by a jest) was nobly censorious. No man ever spake more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough, or look aside from him, without loss. He commanded where he spoke; and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion.
Page 191 - Adieu, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good Night!
Page 193 - And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me?
Page 195 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honied...
Page 191 - A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, My dog howls at the gate. »Come hither, hither, my little page: Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along«.
Page 193 - Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait— Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?
Page 71 - The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye; While England lives, his fame can never die: But he who struts his hour upon the stage, Can scarce extend his fame for half an age; Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save, The art, and artist, share one common grave.
Page 192 - Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee — and One above. »My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again«.
Page 76 - No Quaker or Dissenter from the established worship of this Dominion shall be allowed to give a vote for the election of magistrates, or any officer. No food or lodging shall be afforded to a Quaker, Adamite or other heretic.
Page 415 - Whitford, keep near the walls ! Huggins, regard your own behoof. For, lo ! the blazing rocking roof Down, down in thunder falls ! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Concealed them from the astonished crowd.

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