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Страница 70 - 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 hell reck if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him...
Страница 150 - She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe...
Страница 135 - Not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, they are full of courtesy, and fond of society; more liable in general to err than man, but in general also more virtuous, and performing more good actions, than he. To a woman , whether civilized or savage, I never addressed myself, in the language of decency and friendship, without receiving a decent and friendly answer.
Страница 149 - I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause?
Страница 70 - NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
Страница 135 - I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship, without receiving a decent and friendly answer; with man it has often been otherwise.
Страница 150 - Pity, and smiles, and tears— which I had not; And tenderness— but that I had for her; Humility— and that I never had. Her faults were mine— her virtues were her own— I loved her, and destroyed her! Witch. With thy hand? Man. Not with my hand, but heart, which broke her heart; It gazed on mine, and withered. I have shed Blood, but not hers— and yet her blood was shed; I saw— and could not stanch it.
Страница 322 - ... part of our duration very small of which we can truly call ourselves masters, or which we can spend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of the same employments; many of our provisions for ease or happiness...
Страница 315 - A little skill in criticism would inform us, that shadows and realities ought not to be mixed together in the same piece ; and that the scenes which are designed as the representations of nature, should be filled with resemblances, and not with the things themselves.