The Mirage of Two Buried Cities

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Hazell, Watson, and Viney, 1900 - 354 Seiten
 

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Seite 5 - And even since, and now, fair Italy ! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility : Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
Seite 268 - What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome?
Seite 178 - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Seite 214 - GREAT nations write their autobiographies in three manuscripts — the book of their deeds, the book of their words, and the book of their art. Not one of these books can be understood unless we read the two others ; but of the three, the only quite trustworthy one is the last.
Seite 238 - This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors...
Seite 198 - Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled — You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will. But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Seite 211 - God, who giveth liberally and upbraideth not ; remembering, that every good gift, and every perfect gift cometh down from above, from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, nor shadow of turning.
Seite 325 - Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
Seite 31 - I STOOD within the city disinterred ; And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls Of spirits passing through the streets ; and heard The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless halls. The oracular thunder penetrating shook The listening soul in my suspended blood ; I felt that Earth out of her deep heart spoke — I felt, but heard not. Through white columns glowed The isle-sustaining...
Seite 23 - Whither should they fly ? Some, anticipating a second earthquake, hastened to their homes to load themselves with their more costly goods, and escape while it was yet time ; others, dreading the showers of ashes that now fell fast, torrent upon torrent, over the streets, rushed under the roofs of the nearest houses, or temples, or sheds, — shelter of any kind, — for protection from, 1 Pliny.

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