Sketches of the History of Literature: From the Earliest Period to the Revival of Letters in the Fifteenth Century

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J.S. Simpson, 1827 - 344 Seiten
 

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Seite 129 - Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
Seite 204 - Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloudtopt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Seite 158 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand— his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing* slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
Seite 159 - Were with his heart, and that was far away: He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday — All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire...
Seite 56 - Blest as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile.
Seite 33 - The hills melted like wax at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the Lord of the whole earth. 6 The heavens declare his righteousness, and all the people see his glory.
Seite 301 - If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thrall'd.
Seite xi - Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: — Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, 'Here was, or is', where all is doubly night?
Seite 130 - Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow. Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.
Seite 57 - Full of love-perplexing wiles : 0 goddess ! from my heart remove The wasting cares and pains of love. If ever thou hast kindly heard A song in soft distress preferr'd, Propitious to my tuneful vow, 0 gentle goddess ! hear me now.

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