Poems of Places: Scotland, Denmark, Iceland, Norway, and SwedenHenry Wadsworth Longfellow J.R. Osgood and Company, 1876 |
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... never to himself hath said , This is my own , my native land ! Whose heart hatli ne'er within him burned , As home his footsteps he hath turned , From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe , go , mark him well ; For him ...
... never to himself hath said , This is my own , my native land ! Whose heart hatli ne'er within him burned , As home his footsteps he hath turned , From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe , go , mark him well ; For him ...
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... never yield . Gather , gather , gather , Gather from Lochaber glen : Mac - Mic - Rannail calls you ; Come from Taroph , Roy , and Spean . Gather , brave Clan Donuil , Many sons of might you know ; Lenochan's your brother , Auchterechtan ...
... never yield . Gather , gather , gather , Gather from Lochaber glen : Mac - Mic - Rannail calls you ; Come from Taroph , Roy , and Spean . Gather , brave Clan Donuil , Many sons of might you know ; Lenochan's your brother , Auchterechtan ...
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... never sinder , Till we bring the tyrants down . Mackintosh , the gallant soldier , Wi ' the Grahams and Gordons gay , They have ta'en the field of honor , Spite of all their chiefs could say . Bend the musket , point the rapier , Shift ...
... never sinder , Till we bring the tyrants down . Mackintosh , the gallant soldier , Wi ' the Grahams and Gordons gay , They have ta'en the field of honor , Spite of all their chiefs could say . Bend the musket , point the rapier , Shift ...
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... never grew , Where Roman eagles never flew , Nor Danish lions rallied ; Where skulks the roe in anxious fear , Where roves the stately , nimble deer , There live the lads to freedom dear , By foreign yoke ne'er galled . There woods grow ...
... never grew , Where Roman eagles never flew , Nor Danish lions rallied ; Where skulks the roe in anxious fear , Where roves the stately , nimble deer , There live the lads to freedom dear , By foreign yoke ne'er galled . There woods grow ...
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... never quell , By civil rage and rancor fell . The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day ; No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but those of sorrow flow , And naught is heard ...
... never quell , By civil rage and rancor fell . The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day ; No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but those of sorrow flow , And naught is heard ...
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Чести термини и фразе
amang Auchtertool auld Ballochmyle banks of Ayr Ben Lomond beneath Bennachie birds birks birks of Aberfeldy Blaavin blaw blithe bloom blue bonnie Doon bonnie lass bosom bower Branksome Hall brave breast BRIG bright Carmyle Castle Castle-Gordon clouds Clyde Coquet Water corri crag Craig Elachie Craigcrook Craigie Hill Craigie Lea dark David Macbeth Moir dear deep dewy dream fair Farewell flowers foam frae Gadie rins gleaming glen gloom gray green ha'e hath heart heaven Highland hundred pipers lassie lo'ed Lomond lone loud Mary mony morn mountain mourn mournfully ne'er night o'er proud River roar Robert Burns Robert Tannahill rock round sang scene shade shore sing Sir Walter Scott smile solitude of Binnorie Stand fast stray stream summer sweet thee thine torrents towers tree vale wander wave weary wild William Wordsworth wind wood of Craigie
Популарни одломци
Страница 1 - BREATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well...
Страница 56 - 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...
Страница 168 - Lo !. the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements...
Страница 73 - Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw...
Страница 55 - O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi...
Страница 170 - Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.
Страница 197 - I have almost forgot the taste of fears : The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in 't : I have supp'd full with horrors ; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.
Страница 25 - Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Страница 183 - YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o
Страница 39 - Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig; There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross! But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake; For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle!