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Seite 78 - We wither from our youth, we gasp away — Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — But all too late, — so are we doubly curst, Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same — Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — For all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.
Seite 365 - Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon. My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Seite 351 - It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Seite 240 - As I parted with each corps in turn its band played ' Auld Lang Syne,' and I have never since heard that memory-stirring air without its bringing before my mind's eye the last view I had of the Kabul-Kandahar Field Force. I fancy myself crossing and recrossing the river which winds through the pass ; I hear the martial beat of drums and plaintive music of the pipes ; and I see Riflemen and Gurkhas, Highlanders and Sikhs, guns and horses, camels and mules, with the endless following of an Indian army...
Seite 84 - Ireland would be to put upon the Irish people the duty of levying their own taxes and of providing for their own expenditure...
Seite 472 - Scotia's noblest speech yon orchestra sublime Whaurto - uplifted like the Just - the tail-rods mark the time. The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an' heaves, An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves: Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides, Till - hear that note ? - the rod's return whings glimmerin
Seite 126 - The blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king; the red eyes of his fear are sad. Cormac rises on his soul with all his ghastly wounds.
Seite 455 - And, when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left, Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory, images and precious thoughts, That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
Seite 506 - Jacob) — the structure commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, but left imperfect and inharmonious, requires, now that the rubbish which choked up its approach is removed, only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire renovation and perfection.