The Ruminator: Containing a Series of Moral, Critical, and Sentimental Essays, المجلد 1

الغلاف الأمامي
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1813

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الصفحة xii - But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
الصفحة 55 - In thoughts from the visions of the night, When deep sleep falleth on men, Fear came upon me, and trembling, Which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face ; The hair of my flesh stood up.
الصفحة 129 - CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast...
الصفحة 72 - As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month, Let me not think on't: Frailty, thy name is woman!
الصفحة 128 - Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Staid not behind, nor in the grave were trod ; But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best, Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
الصفحة 166 - Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms ; Of patriot battles, won of old By Wallace wight, and Bruce the bold ; Of later fields of feud and fight, When, pouring from their Highland height, The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, Had swept the scarlet ranks away. While...
الصفحة 85 - I knew him a few years ago full of hopes, and full of projects, versed in many languages, high in fancy, and strong in retention.
الصفحة 163 - NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen, You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled green-wood grew, So feeble trilled the streamlet through: Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed.
الصفحة 271 - Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see The monster London laugh at me, I should at thee too, foolish city, If it were fit to laugh at misery, But thy estate I pity. Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And all the fools that crowd thee so, Even thou who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, A solitude almost.
الصفحة 165 - It was a barren scene and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled, But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall.

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