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Seite 532 - She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat, like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Seite 135 - Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage.
Seite 38 - Vanbrugh , and is a good example of his heavy though imposing style (*Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he Laid many a heavy load on thee"), with a Corinthian portico in the centre and two projecting wings.
Seite 399 - The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair — A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay.
Seite 445 - ve sworn by our country's assaulters, By the virgins they 've dragg'd from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins, That living, we shall be victorious, Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we 've drawn we will sheathe not ! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Seite 445 - AGAIN to the battle, Achaians ! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree — It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers
Seite 161 - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast?
Seite 445 - Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.
Seite 428 - A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg'd like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm, o