Was andere dazu sagen - Rezension schreiben
Es wurden keine Rezensionen gefunden.
Andere Ausgaben - Alle anzeigen
able answered appear asked beauty better Blossom called Captain cold coming course cried dear Dodd don't door eyes face father feel fellow felt gave girl give Gwendoline half hand Hardrop head hear heard heart Hester hold honour hope hour interest Italy Jack keep knew Lady laugh leave less light live looked Lord matter mean mind Miss morning mother nature never night once passed perhaps person play poor present question rest returned rose round seemed seen ship side sitting smile soon sort speak standing suppose sure taken Talbot talk tell thing thought tion told took turned voice walked Welbore window wish woman young
Seite 222 - There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view. But he died early ; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done ! I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan.
Seite 178 - And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights. And lives he still, then ? Yes ! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives enduring what future story Will never know. Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms ! There let him dwell ! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.
Seite 351 - A POOR Relation is the most irrelevant thing in nature — a piece of impertinent correspondency — an odious approximation — a haunting conscience — a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noon-tide of our prosperity — an unwelcome remembrancer...
Seite 324 - Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies; They fall successive, and successive rise: So generations in their course decay; So flourish these, when those are pass'd away.
Seite 177 - And I bend with the weight of years — May I soon go down to the House of Clay, Where slumber my Youth's compeers ! For with them and the Past, though the thought wakes woe, My memory ever abides ; And I mourn for the times gone long ago — For the times of the Barmecides ! I mourn for the times gone long ago, For the times of the Barmecides.
Seite 297 - Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!
Seite 176 - I am bowed with the weight of years; I would I were stretched in my bed of clay, With my long-lost youth's compeers! For back to the Past, though the thought brings woe, My memory ever glides — To the old, old time, long, long ago, The Time of the Barmecides!
Seite 132 - Barbarous father, your cruelty in having put it out of my power ever to join my fate to that of the only man I could love, and tyrannically insisting upon my marrying one whom I always hated, has made me form a resolution to put an end to an existence which is become a burthen to me.
Seite 317 - that what Mr. Carlyle loves better than his faultfinding, with all its eloquence, is the face of any human creature that looks suffering and loving and sincere ; and I believe, further, that if the fellowcreature were suffering only, and neither loving nor sincere, but had come to a pass of agony in this life which put him at the mercies of some good man for some last help and consolation towards his grave, even at the risk of loss to repute, and a sure amount of pain and vexation, that man, if the...
Seite 516 - Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be ? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve : If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? George Wither.