Foster's Cabinet Miscellany: A Series of Publications on Various Subjects from the Latest and Most Approved Writers, Band 3

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Theodore Foster, 1837
 

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Seite 205 - Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; A mighty mixture of the great and base.
Seite 238 - Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away.
Seite 57 - With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me?
Seite 62 - As we sallied forth, every dog in the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old stag-hound Maida...
Seite 136 - For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employ'd, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen, and fancy's glow — They sleep with him who sleeps below...
Seite 106 - tis no laughing matter : little by little, whatever your wishes may be, you will destroy and undermine until nothing of what makes Scotland Scotland, shall remain.
Seite 245 - I can, with honest truth, exculpate myself from having been at any time a partisan of my own poetry, even when it was in the highest fashion with the million. It must not be supposed that I was either so ungrateful, or so superabundantly candid, as to despise or scorn the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my opinion told me I deserved.
Seite 250 - A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue.
Seite 57 - To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; And Araby's or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill.
Seite 253 - Jamie, mon," he said to a friend. " Jamie is gaen clean gyte. — What do you think, mon ? He's done wi' Paoli — he's off wi' the land-louping scoundrel of a Corsican ; and whose tail do you think he has pinned himself to now, mon ?" Here the old judge summoned up a sneer of most sovereign contempt. " A dominie, mon — an auld dominie ; he keeped a schule, and cau'd it an acaadamy.

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