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Página 424 - Weep no more, woeful Shepherds, weep no more ! For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor : So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
Página 178 - For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth.
Página 419 - I will not leave you long ; For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells, Who, from the chiding stream, or groaning oak, Still hears and answers to Matilda^ moan.
Página 441 - Trenmor came, from his hill, at the voice of his mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of the stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano, that brings death to the people. His sword is a green meteor half-extinguished.
Página 187 - On the other side, Satan alarmed, Collecting all his might, dilated stood, Like Teneriffe or Atlas, unremoved. His stature reached the sky, and on his crest Sat Horror plumed ; nor wanted in his grasp What seemed both spear and shield.
Página 306 - The king took his deathful spear, and struck the deeply-sounding shield : his shield that hung high in night, the dismal sign of war ! Ghosts fled on every side, and rolled their gathered forms on the wind. Thrice from the winding vale arose the voice of deaths. The harps * of the bards, untouched, sound mournful over the hill. He struck again the shield; battles rose in the dreams of his host.
Página 374 - Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy head to nightly winds ! I hear no sound in thee ; is there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling in thy leaves ? Often are the steps of the dead, in the darkeddying blasts ; when the moon, a dun shield, from the east, is rolled along the sky.
Página 93 - O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves the grass to those who ask thine aid. — So Tremor lived; such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injured ; and the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel.
Página 155 - Grace was in all her steps. Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love.