Itinéraire et souvenirs d'Angleterre et d'Écosse, Том 3

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Сторінка 366 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Сторінка 366 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Сторінка 35 - Je déclare solennellement, en tout honneur et en toute conscience, que je dirai la vérité, toute la vérité et rien que la vérité».
Сторінка 157 - O, it is Annie of Lochroyan, Your love, come o'er the sea, But and your young son in her arms ; So open the door to me.
Сторінка 373 - No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white round polish'd pebbles spread ; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; The springing trout in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war, The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch and groves of pine, And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Сторінка 373 - Arcadian plain. Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; No torrents stain thy limpid source ; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white round...
Сторінка 159 - But mine o' the diamonds fine. " Sae open the door, now, love Gregor, And open it wi' speed ; Or your young son, that is in my arms, For cald will soon be dead.
Сторінка 327 - Tis midnight: on the mountains brown The cold, round moon shines deeply down; Blue roll the waters, blue the sky Spreads like an ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright; Who ever gazed upon them shining And turn'd to earth without repining, Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray?
Сторінка 109 - Si toutesfois il leur fâche de nous céder en quoy que ce soit, et veulent par curiosité avoir part aux livres, la poésie est un amusement propre à leur besoin ; c'est un art follastre et subtil, desguisé, parlier, tout en plaisir, tout en montre, comme elles.
Сторінка 84 - As wreath of snow, on mountain breast, Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Monarch's feet she lay ; No word her choking voice commands : She showed the ring, she clasped her hands.

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