The works of Robert Burns; with an account of his life, and a criticism on his writings, Том 2

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Сторінка 20 - There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion: my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.
Сторінка 291 - Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.
Сторінка 198 - Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go A service to my bonnie lassie...
Сторінка 314 - Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; ' " Lord of the Lion-heart and eagle eye ! " Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, " Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky...
Сторінка 4 - Oh! happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature law...
Сторінка 134 - The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Сторінка 207 - I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and, passing from one thought to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream.
Сторінка 207 - Bagdat in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and, passing from one thought to another, surely...
Сторінка 208 - I never hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of gray plover in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry.
Сторінка 276 - Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

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