Moxon's Standard readings and recitations, ed. by T. Hood |
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Сторінка iv
... .. ... 113 ... ... ... THE BROOK THE SUDDEN DEATH : ... 119 136 ... ... ... A TRUE STORY THE INCHCAPE ROCK ... SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF Delight : ... ... 163 ... ... ... 170 175 PREFACE . TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION . AT the time iv CONTENTS .
... .. ... 113 ... ... ... THE BROOK THE SUDDEN DEATH : ... 119 136 ... ... ... A TRUE STORY THE INCHCAPE ROCK ... SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF Delight : ... ... 163 ... ... ... 170 175 PREFACE . TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION . AT the time iv CONTENTS .
Сторінка 116
... rock it ; Little ones boast your permission to toast The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket . This greeting the silent old Clerk under- stands , - His friends he can love , had he foes , he could mock them ; So met , so ...
... rock it ; Little ones boast your permission to toast The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket . This greeting the silent old Clerk under- stands , - His friends he can love , had he foes , he could mock them ; So met , so ...
Сторінка 166
... Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it , In fact , he read of burner and of killer , And Irish ravages , day after day , Till , haunted in his dreams , he used to say , That " Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pillar . " Judge then the ...
... Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it , In fact , he read of burner and of killer , And Irish ravages , day after day , Till , haunted in his dreams , he used to say , That " Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pillar . " Judge then the ...
Сторінка 169
... - speak outright , boy ? " " O Massa " - ( so the explanation ran ) " Massa be killed - ' cause Massa Orange Man . And Pompey killed - ' cause Pompey not a White Boy ! " THE INCHCAPE ROCK . By R. SOUTHEY , No stir A TRUE STORY . 169.
... - speak outright , boy ? " " O Massa " - ( so the explanation ran ) " Massa be killed - ' cause Massa Orange Man . And Pompey killed - ' cause Pompey not a White Boy ! " THE INCHCAPE ROCK . By R. SOUTHEY , No stir A TRUE STORY . 169.
Сторінка 170
... Rock ; So little they rose , so little they fell , They did not move the Inchcape Bell . The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung ( 170 ) THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
... Rock ; So little they rose , so little they fell , They did not move the Inchcape Bell . The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung ( 170 ) THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
Загальні терміни та фрази
Abendali ALFRED TENNYSON Allen-a-Dale beneath bless Bo-bo breath bright brothers brow burnt caliph CHARLES LAMB child cloud cried dead dear death delight door Dora dream earth eyes fair father fear galloped gone hand hath head hear heard heart heaven honour horse Inchcape Inchcape Rock Katie knew Lady Clare laughing light lips Little Agib Lochinvar look look'd Lord LORD BYRON loud lullaby Ma'am maid Mary Miss Norman morning mother Netherby never night o'er old familiar faces old woman once Penny Readings Pixies Pompey poor ROBERT SOUTHEY rock rose round Sally Brown sing Sir Walter smile song spirit stand stood sweet thee There's thing THOMAS HOOD thou thought told took Twas Venice Vere de Vere Vincent Ball voice William dear WILLIAM WORDSWORTH wind wonder young
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Сторінка 73 - And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail : And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
Сторінка 166 - I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; A palace and a prison on each hand : I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand...
Сторінка 32 - mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? xiii.
Сторінка 123 - I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel...
Сторінка 176 - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
Сторінка 95 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Сторінка 38 - Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.
Сторінка 93 - Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Сторінка 65 - The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Сторінка 67 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.