ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة
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admiration amusement ancient appear Athens ballad-singers beauty Bushe called Carlos character CHESS IN EUROPE Combabus court Darius death delight effect English epigram Erasistratus eyes fancy feeling Ferce French genius girl give grace hand happy Harmodius Harmodius and Aristogiton hath head heart Heaven honour hope imagination John Sheares King lady lake of Neuchatel living London look Lord Luke Mary Megabyzus ment mind nature never night noble o'er object observed once Opera Orcanes Othello Parisa passed passion perhaps Persia persons picture Plato pleasure Plunket poet poetical poetry political possess present Prince Procida racter Rayland reader recollection Satrap scene seems Seleucus shew sleep smile song soul spirit Stratonice Switzerland talents taste theatre thee thing thou thought tion verse walk whole woman young youth
الصفحة 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.
الصفحة 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.
الصفحة 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.
الصفحة 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.
الصفحة 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.
الصفحة 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
الصفحة 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?
الصفحة 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.
الصفحة 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