The Children of the Abbey: A Tale

الغلاف الأمامي
Porter & Coates, 1876 - 646 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 60 - She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: Among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her: All her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies.
الصفحة 329 - Oh Death ! where is thy sting ? Oh Grave ! where is thy victory ? The sting of Death is sin, and the strength of sin is the Law.
الصفحة 330 - The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed...
الصفحة 569 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
الصفحة 41 - Awake, awake, my Lyre ! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail ; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark, how the strings awake ! And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make.
الصفحة 181 - At this a flood of tears Lavinia shed, A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red; The driving colours, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. Delightful change; thus Indian ivory shows Which with, the bordering paint of purple glows, Or lilies...
الصفحة 569 - E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn...
الصفحة 324 - mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Ah ! what will every dirge avail ? Or tears, which love and pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail...
الصفحة 8 - Lay by the red terror of your course. Receive the falling chief; whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be near ; his spear that is form'd of a cloud.
الصفحة 41 - And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try ; Now all thy charms apply ; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak lyre ! thy virtue...

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