A Translation of Jacob's Greek Reader: (adapted to All the Editions Printed in America,)

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W.E. Dean, 1842 - Greek language - 328 pages
 

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Page 155 - I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, • And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Page 87 - And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, Or dim suffusion veil'd.
Page 139 - 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...
Page 48 - How wonderful is Death, Death, and his brother Sleep ! One, pale as yonder waning moon With lips of lurid blue ; The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean's wave It blushes o'er the world : Yet both so passing wonderful...
Page 2 - Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! LXXXVII.
Page 79 - Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate; Sad Acheron, of sorrow, black and deep ; Cocytus, named of lamentation loud Heard on the rueful stream ; fierce Phlegethon, Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.
Page 281 - Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief with his remembered lay. And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray...
Page 172 - The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord, Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas...
Page 275 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers...
Page 227 - But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her, for her hair is given her for a covering.

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