A history of English literature for junior classes

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William Collins, 1881 - 253 Seiten
 

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Seite 50 - Where some, like magistrates, correct at home ; Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad ; Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds...
Seite 92 - On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. Robed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
Seite 107 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...
Seite 48 - If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii : — Look ! In this place ran Cassius...
Seite 147 - ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden, saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Seite 186 - Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. " For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours.
Seite 49 - This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors...
Seite 27 - The turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs : The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale.
Seite 53 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine.
Seite 69 - Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Vary to our Great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's Great Author rise...

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