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Seite 128 - Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
Seite 149 - I'll tell thee; On the Rialto, every night at twelve, I take my evening's walk of meditation ; There we two will meet, and talk of precious Mischief Jaf.
Seite 240 - And hears him rustling in the wood, and sees His course at distance by the bending trees ; And thinks, Here comes my mortal enemy, And either he must fall in fight, or I...
Seite 124 - The contents of these sad records of mortality, the vain sorrows which they record, the stern lesson which they teach of the nothingness of humanity, the extent of ground which they so closely cover, and their uniform and melancholy tenor, reminded me of the roll of the prophet, which was " written within and without, and there were written therein lamentations and mourning and woe.
Seite 126 - Paperie; na, na! nane could ever say that o' the trades o' Glasgow. Sae they sune came to an agreement to take a' the idolatrous statues of sants — sorrow be on them ! — out o' their neuks. And sae the bits o...
Seite 61 - I hear a voice, you cannot hear, Which says, I must not stay; I see a hand, you cannot see, Which beckons me away.
Seite 126 - Rabat was dean o' guild that year; and a gude mason he was himsell, made him the keener to keep up the auld bigging — and the trades assembled, and offered downright battle to the commons, rather than their kirk should coup the crans, as others had done elsewhere. It wasna for luve o' Paperie; na, na! nane could ever say that o' the trades o' Glasgow. Sae they sune came to an agreement to take a' the idolatrous statues of sants — sorrow be on them ! — out o
Seite 302 - Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green. The plague of locusts they secure defy, For in three hours a grasshopper must die. No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, But the Cameleon, who can feast on air.