Moxon's Standard readings and recitations, ed. by T. Hood |
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Сторінка vii
... voice ; and in many that excellent gift is lost because they want the art to express nature . Seventhly , there is not any music of instruments whatsoever comparable to that which is made by the voices of men , when the voices are good ...
... voice ; and in many that excellent gift is lost because they want the art to express nature . Seventhly , there is not any music of instruments whatsoever comparable to that which is made by the voices of men , when the voices are good ...
Сторінка viii
Edward Moxon (and co.) Thomas Hood. men , when the voices are good , and the same well - sorted and ordered . Eighthly , the better the voice is the meeter it is to honour and serve God therewith ; and the voice of man is chiefly to be ...
Edward Moxon (and co.) Thomas Hood. men , when the voices are good , and the same well - sorted and ordered . Eighthly , the better the voice is the meeter it is to honour and serve God therewith ; and the voice of man is chiefly to be ...
Сторінка ix
... voice of men cannot , in my humble opinion , be better employed secularly in the worship of God , than in reading aloud to others the works of those great and good writers to whom He has confided genius and inspira- tion . Thus may we ...
... voice of men cannot , in my humble opinion , be better employed secularly in the worship of God , than in reading aloud to others the works of those great and good writers to whom He has confided genius and inspira- tion . Thus may we ...
Сторінка 3
... voice , and the other pricked out on his track ; And one eye's black intelligence , -- ever that glance O'er its white edge at me , his own master askance ! And the thick heavy spume - flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook ...
... voice , and the other pricked out on his track ; And one eye's black intelligence , -- ever that glance O'er its white edge at me , his own master askance ! And the thick heavy spume - flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook ...
Сторінка 6
... voice but was praising this Roland of mine , As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine , Which ( the burgesses voted by common consent ) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent . ( 7 ) MORE HULLAH - BALOO ...
... voice but was praising this Roland of mine , As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine , Which ( the burgesses voted by common consent ) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent . ( 7 ) MORE HULLAH - BALOO ...
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.