The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, Volumen2

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A. Constable, 1823
 

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Página 29 - DAY set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone: The battled towers, the Donjon Keep, The loop-hole grates where captives weep? The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone.
Página 132 - It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled ; But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round survey'd ; And still I thought that shatter'd tower The mightiest work of human power...
Página 73 - Thou know'st it well, — nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land.
Página 17 - Here, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, 'All peace on earth, good-will to men...
Página 11 - Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower ; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie ; The lambs upon the lea shall bound, The wild birds carol to the round, And while you frolic light as they, Too short shall seem the summer day.
Página 149 - Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her ? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying ; Eleu loro There shall he be lying.
Página 30 - George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung.
Página 15 - Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, The trumpet's silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill...
Página 18 - E'er fram'd in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these, The wine of life is on the lees; Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tomb'd beneath the stone Where — taming thought to human pride!
Página 9 - NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear : Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen, You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled greenwood grew, So feeble trill'd the streamlet through : Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen, Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, * Hurries its waters to the...

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