Letters of travel

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Courier Company, printers, 1888 - Journalists
 

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Page 35 - This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy ; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Page 124 - I heed not if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.
Page 39 - Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity: And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear...
Page 238 - Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore: Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages...
Page 250 - Sweet Hour of Twilight!— in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest!
Page 67 - The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, For, ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — , Where shall he find, in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand...
Page 96 - The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Page 230 - Both, and yet neither. There, from age to age, Two ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. He meditates, his head upon his hand. What from beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls ? Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ? 'Tis lost in shade ; yet, like the basilisk, It fascinates, and is intolerable.
Page 12 - Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? Here, in streaming London's central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones for evermore.
Page 105 - Fearless she had track'd his feet To this rocky, wild retreat ; And, when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah ! your Saints have cruel hearts ! Sternly from his bed he starts. And, with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock. Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said,