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Page 199 - THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Page 406 - Lead then, said Eve. He leading swiftly roll'd In tangles, and made intricate seem straight. To mischief swift. Hope elevates, and joy Brightens his crest. As when a wandering fire, Compact of unctuous vapour, which the night Condenses, and the cold environs round, Kindled through agitation to a flame, Which oft, they say, some evil spirit attends, Hovering and blazing with delusive light, Misleads the amazed night-wanderer from his way To bogs and mires, and oft through pond or pool, There swallow'd...
Page 257 - ... rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something, every now and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a...
Page 458 - Behold a proof of Irish sense : Here Irish wit is seen ; When nothing's left that's worth defence, They build a magazine ! * Besides these famous books of Scott's and Johnson's, there is a copious " Life
Page 252 - There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pass for more than he was worth.
Page 199 - And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent — the banners alone — The lances unlifted — the trumpet unblown.
Page 256 - It was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; but was still feverish, and obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn! — whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation.
Page 397 - The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint. " Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me ; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be.
Page 40 - Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; We therefore need not part. Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From avarice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles ? For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles J The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven, that thou alone canst make?