The poetical works of Walter Scott, Band 8


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Seite 22 - O Lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress tree ! Too lively glow the lilies light, The varnish'd holly's all too bright, The May-flower and the eglantine May shade a brow less sad than mine ; But, Lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress tree...
Seite 24 - I have look'd and loved my last ! When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress-tree.
Seite 149 - ... It was on a daik rainy night in the month of November, that an old midwife sat musing by her cottage fire-side, when on a sudden she was startled by a loud knocking at the door. On opening it she found a horseman, who told her that her assistance was required immediately by a person of rank, and that she should be handsomely rewarded ; but that there were reasons for keeping the affair a strict secret, and, therefore, she must submit to be blindfolded, and to be conducted in that condition to...
Seite 103 - The reverend pile lay wild and waste, Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced. Through storied lattices no more In soften'd light the sunbeams pour, Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich Of shrine, and monument, and niche. The Civil fury of the time Made sport of sacrilegious crime...
Seite 3 - The sultry summer day is done. The western hills have hid the sun, But mountain peak and village spire Retain reflection of his fire. Old Barnard's towers are purple still, To those that gaze from...
Seite 95 - And now, my race of terror run, Mine be the eve of tropic Sun ! No pale gradations quench his ray, No twilight dews his wrath allay ; With disk like battle-target red, He rushes to his burning bed, Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, Then sinks at once — and all is nig'ht.
Seite 23 - Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine ; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due : The myrtle bough bids lovers live, But that Matilda will not give ; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the...
Seite 4 - Streaks yet a while the closing shade, Then slow resigns to darkening heaven The tints which brighter hours had given. Thus aged men full loth and slow The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er, Till Memory lends her light no more.

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