The poetical works of sir Walter ScottA. & C. Black, 1882 - 823 من الصفحات |
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الصفحة 10
... rose , and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock , with lichens gray , Seemed , dimly huge , the dark Abbaye . When Hawick he passed , had curfew rung , Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung . The sound , upon the fitful gale , In ...
... rose , and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock , with lichens gray , Seemed , dimly huge , the dark Abbaye . When Hawick he passed , had curfew rung , Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung . The sound , upon the fitful gale , In ...
الصفحة 13
... rose high aloof On pillars , lofty , and light , and small ; The key - stone , that locked each ribbed aisle , Was a fleur - de - lys , or a quatre - feuille ; The corbels were carved grotesque and grim ; And the pillars , with ...
... rose high aloof On pillars , lofty , and light , and small ; The key - stone , that locked each ribbed aisle , Was a fleur - de - lys , or a quatre - feuille ; The corbels were carved grotesque and grim ; And the pillars , with ...
الصفحة 14
... rose , But I stood by his bed ere evening close . The words may not again be said , That he spoke to me , on death - bed laid ; They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave , And pile it in heaps above his grave . 15. " I swore to bury his ...
... rose , But I stood by his bed ere evening close . The words may not again be said , That he spoke to me , on death - bed laid ; They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave , And pile it in heaps above his grave . 15. " I swore to bury his ...
الصفحة 17
... rose . And lovelier than the rose so red , Yet paler than the violet pale , She early left her sleepless bed , The fairest maid of Teviotdale . 6. Why does fair Margaret so early awake , And don her kirtle so hastilie , And the silken ...
... rose . And lovelier than the rose so red , Yet paler than the violet pale , She early left her sleepless bed , The fairest maid of Teviotdale . 6. Why does fair Margaret so early awake , And don her kirtle so hastilie , And the silken ...
الصفحة 22
... rose dismayed , And shook his huge and matted head ; One word he muttered , and no more- " Man of age , thou smitest sore ! " No more the Elfin Page durst try Into the wondrous Book to pry ; The clasps , though smeared with Christian ...
... rose dismayed , And shook his huge and matted head ; One word he muttered , and no more- " Man of age , thou smitest sore ! " No more the Elfin Page durst try Into the wondrous Book to pry ; The clasps , though smeared with Christian ...
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Argentine arms band banner bard battle beneath Bertram blood blood-hound bold bore bower brand Branksome Hall brave breast breath bright Brignal brow Bruce castle cheer chieftain chivalry courser crest Dame dark deep Deloraine Douglas dread Edinburgh Annual Ettricke Forest fair falchion fame fear fell fierce fight gallant glance glen grace gray hall hand harp hast hath hear heard heart heaven honoured King knight lady Ladye land light Lochinvar lonely look Lord Marmion loud maid maiden mingled minstrel Monarch Mortham mountain ne'er noble o'er pale passed pennons pibroch pride Redmond rill Risingham rock Roderick Rokeby's Ronald round rude rung Saint scarce scene Scotland Scotland's Scottish Seneschal shore sigh sire smile song sought soul sound spear spoke steed stern stood stream sword tale tear tell thee thine thou tide toil tower train Twas twixt wake warrior wave ween wild Wilfrid wind
مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 12 - O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand...
الصفحة 105 - HERON'S SONG. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none ; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
الصفحة 11 - BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ! — If such there breathe, go, mark him well...
الصفحة 13 - The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand In many a freakish knot had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
الصفحة 41 - CALL it not vain ¡—they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies : Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.
الصفحة 2 - Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorned and poor, He begged his bread from door to door ; ' And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear.
الصفحة 105 - Eske River where ford there was none: But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
الصفحة 1 - The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-aday! their date was fled; His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest.
الصفحة 237 - That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread ? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams...
الصفحة 11 - When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die...