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the possessive case of an inanimate noun used in prose in-20 stead of the dependent case; as "the watch's hand," for “the hand of the watch.” The possessive or Saxon genitive was confined to persons, or at least to animated subjects.
And I cannot conclude this lecture without insisting on the importance of accuracy of style, as being near akin to veracity 25 and truthful habits of mind. He who thinks loosely will write loosely; and, perhaps, there is some moral inconvenience in the common forms of our grammars, which give our children so many obscure terms for material distinctions. Let me also exhort you to careful examination of what you 30 read, if it be worth any perusal at all : such an examination will be a safeguard from fanaticism, the universal origin of which is in the contemplation of phenomena without investigation into their causes.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And ʼmid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there, –
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses !
let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks, where the snowflake 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.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; On chieftains long perished my memory ponder’d,
As daily 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.
“Shades of the dead I 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.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy wind gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
“Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding
that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ahl were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause :
Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber,
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have rollid on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again :
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England I thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roamed o'er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic !
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.
(From English Bards and Scotch Reviewers)
Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double";
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy”,
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day;
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the “idiot in his glory”
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.
(From Childe Harold, Canto I)
The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd,
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
No vacant space for lated wight is found :
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die,
As moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.
Hush'd is the din of tongues on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
And lowly bending to the lists advance;
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array’d,
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed :
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
Can man achieve without the friendly steed
Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.