The Lady of the Lake: A Poem
Mason, Baker & Pratt, 1873 - 300 páginas
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Términos y frases comunes
answer appear arms band battle bear blood bold bound brand brow called cause chase chief Chieftain clan close Cross dark death deep Douglas edition Ellen English fair fear fire gave gilt give given glance glen grace grey half hand harp head hear heard heart held Highland hill hold isle James John kind King LADY lake land late length light live Loch look Lord maid means Minstrel morning mountain never night noble Note o'er once pass person race rest Robin Hood rock Roderick round Scotland Scottish seen side song soon sought sound speed stand Stirling stood stranger sword tear tell thee thine thou thought tide till took wave wild wind wood young
Página 119 - He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Página 52 - She sung, and still a harp unseen Fill'd up the symphony between.* XXXI " Soldier, rest I thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more : Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Página 53 - Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille.
Página 79 - Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe...
Página 9 - He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.
Página 237 - And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive, in dreadful race, Pursuers and pursued; Before that tide of flight and chase, How shall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood?— 'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down!
Página 236 - At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell! Forth from the pass in tumult driven, Like chaff before the wind of heaven, The archery appear: For life ! for life ! their flight they ply— And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broad-swords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear.
Página 197 - But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game : For, while the dagger gleamed on high, Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. Down came the blow ! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
Página 214 - Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland.
Página 41 - Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the shaggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confess'd The guileless movements of her breast ; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claim'da sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion pour'da prayer, Or tale of injury call'd forth The indignant spirit of the North.