The book of recitations [ed.] by C.W. Smith |
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Сторінка iii
... young . " The study also greatly improves the memory : Sir Philip Sidney justly says , " Verse far exceedeth prose in the knitting up of the memory . Who is it that ever was a scholar that does not carry away some verses which in his ...
... young . " The study also greatly improves the memory : Sir Philip Sidney justly says , " Verse far exceedeth prose in the knitting up of the memory . Who is it that ever was a scholar that does not carry away some verses which in his ...
Сторінка vii
... Young . 204 Merrick . 205 Pope . 208 Longfellow . 209 Goldsmith . 210 Young . 212 Cowper . 213 Foote . 215 Bloomfield . 216 Mrs. Piozzi . 218 Whittier . 222 Cowper . 223 James Montgomery . 225 Hughes . 226 Mickle . 229 Mery and ...
... Young . 204 Merrick . 205 Pope . 208 Longfellow . 209 Goldsmith . 210 Young . 212 Cowper . 213 Foote . 215 Bloomfield . 216 Mrs. Piozzi . 218 Whittier . 222 Cowper . 223 James Montgomery . 225 Hughes . 226 Mickle . 229 Mery and ...
Сторінка 15
... young and old in circle Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets , And the lads are shaping bows ; When the goodman mends his armour , And trims his helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes ...
... young and old in circle Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets , And the lads are shaping bows ; When the goodman mends his armour , And trims his helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes ...
Сторінка 19
... young man said to the Psalmist . BY LONGFELLOW . TELL me not , in mournful numbers , Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers , And things are not what they seem . Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is ...
... young man said to the Psalmist . BY LONGFELLOW . TELL me not , in mournful numbers , Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers , And things are not what they seem . Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is ...
Сторінка 22
... Young Malcolm , at distance couched , trembling the while- Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen - Gyle . Few minutes had passed , ere they spied on the stream A skiff sailing light , where a lady did seem ; Her sail was the web of ...
... Young Malcolm , at distance couched , trembling the while- Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen - Gyle . Few minutes had passed , ere they spied on the stream A skiff sailing light , where a lady did seem ; Her sail was the web of ...
Загальні терміни та фрази
Absalom arms battle beauty beneath blood bosom bowed brave breast breath bright brother brow Cæsar clouds cold cried customed hill dark dead death deep dread dream earth Eleonora di Toledo EUGENE ARAM fair falchion father fear fell gazed Gelert gold grave hand hast hath head hear heard heart heaven hour Inchcape Rock Jaspar Julius Cæsar king knew Lars Porsena light lips live Lochiel lonely look Lord William loud Macgregor moon morn never Nevermore night numbers o'er once pale pride proud Quoth Quoth the Raven rock rose round Samian wine sate shone shore shout sigh silent slave sleep smile song soul Souliotes sound spake spirit steed stood stream strong sweet sword tears Thaïs thee thine thou thought Twas victorious bands voice wave weary weep wild wind young youth
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Сторінка 211 - Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.
Сторінка 130 - Be that word our sign of parting, bird, or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting: "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Сторінка 275 - O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners...
Сторінка 19 - Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Сторінка 282 - With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; But that the dread of something after death, — The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Сторінка 260 - Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.
Сторінка 63 - On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Сторінка 278 - tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.
Сторінка 274 - This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Сторінка 210 - Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.