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Сторінка 370 - twixt my knees on the ground ; And no 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 ROBERT BROWNING.
Сторінка 369 - And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my 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 upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; "We'll remember at Aix...
Сторінка 369 - Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
Сторінка 403 - I beheld till the thrones were cast down, and the Ancient of days did sit, whose garment was white as snow, and the hair of his head like the pure wool: his throne was like the fiery flame and his wheels as burning fire.
Сторінка 368 - I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; " Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
Сторінка 307 - Therefore I will shake the heavens, And the earth shall remove out of her place, In the wrath of the Lord of hosts, And in the day of his fierce anger.
Сторінка 310 - Behold, O My people, I will open your graves, and cause you to come up out of your graves, and bring you into the land of Israel.
Сторінка 401 - no man knoweth the Father but the Son, and he to whom the Son revealeth him...
Сторінка 135 - Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes : Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
Сторінка 254 - Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us : Thy wail — What...

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