The Children of the Abbey

J. B. Lippincott & Company, 1877 - 629 páginas

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Página 60 - She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: Among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her: All her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies.
Página 42 - Awake, awake, my Lyre ! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail ; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark, how the strings awake ! And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make.
Página 245 - Ah little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain.
Página 10 - ... of my fathers ! bend. Lay by the red terror of your course. Receive the falling chief; whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be near ; his spear that is form'd of a cloud.
Página 200 - Where virtue is, these are more virtuous ; Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt ; For she had eyes, and chose me. No, lago ; I'll see before I doubt ; when I doubt, prove : And on the proof, there is no more but this, — Away at once with love or jealousy ! lago.
Página 245 - Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery.
Página 42 - ... apply ; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove ; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Página 41 - The scenes where ancient bards the' inspiring breath, Ecstatic, felt; and, from this world retired, Conversed with angels, and immortal forms, On gracious errands bent: to save the fall Of virtue struggling on the brink of vice; In waking whispers, and repeated dreams, To hint pure thought, and warn the favour'd soul For future trials fated to prepare...
Página 10 - The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently touch'd my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded sighs of his bosom rose. Some of my heroes are low, said the grayhair'd king of Morven.

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