The Miscellaneous Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott...

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R. Cadell, 1835
 

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Página 343 - STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand : I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me.
Página 88 - Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide ; To lose good days that might be better spent ; To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; To feed on hope ; to pine with fear and sorrow ; To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her peers...
Página 247 - I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
Página 332 - Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell...
Página 259 - Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Página 343 - Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story...
Página 342 - The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, The envious who but breathe in others' pain, Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, Watch...
Página 277 - Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : — Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud, While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.
Página 285 - 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.
Página 278 - And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah ! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old.

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