Hours of Idleness: A Series of Poems, Original and Translated

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W.T. Sherwin, 1820 - 160 من الصفحات

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الصفحة 120 - Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the...
الصفحة 122 - Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale!" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
الصفحة 1 - THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle ; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way.
الصفحة 63 - ANIMULA! vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesque, corporis, Quse nunc abibis in loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos.
الصفحة 121 - I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
الصفحة 63 - Ah ! Gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay ! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more, with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
الصفحة 1 - Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day ; yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield.
الصفحة 123 - Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! TO ROMANCE.
الصفحة 120 - AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war ; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

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