The Lady of the Lake

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Зміст

I
7
II
23
III
53
V
89
VI
121
VII
155
VIII
191

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Сторінка 207 - At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had pealed the banner-cry of hell...
Сторінка 103 - The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.
Сторінка 69 - Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 'Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars, for the evergreen Pine!
Сторінка 167 - And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: 'Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party- conquers in the strife.
Сторінка 170 - And locked his arms his foeman round. Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel ! They tug, they strain ! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
Сторінка 161 - Pent in this fortress of the North, Think'st thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey?
Сторінка 31 - Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.
Сторінка 131 - Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing.
Сторінка 168 - Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ; Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt — We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.
Сторінка 70 - Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven : And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head ! XXII.

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