Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart..

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Robert Cadell, Edinburgh. John Murray and Whittaker and Company, London., 1837 - 486 Seiten
 

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Seite 336 - 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 239 - The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; "The game is done! I've won! I've won!
Seite 283 - Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud: And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Seite 350 - MINE be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear , 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.
Seite 187 - They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs...
Seite 40 - Cruikshanks, and such chroniclers, he, who was every inch a soldier and a gentleman, still passed among the Scottish vulgar for a ruffian desperado, who rode a goblin horse, was proof against shot, and in league with the Devil.
Seite 90 - Scott proposed a ramble to show me something of the surrounding country. As we sallied forth, every dog in the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old stag-hound Maida...
Seite 177 - Had this very story been conducted by a common hand, Effie would have attracted all our concern and sympathy, Jeanie only cold approbation. Whereas Jeanie, without youth, beauty, genius, warm passions, or any other novel perfection, is here our object from beginning to end.
Seite 147 - Hamilton — and a shrewd, clever old carle was he, no doubt, but no more a poet than his precentor. As for poets, I have seen, I believe, all the best of our own time and country — and, though Burns had the most glorious eyes imaginable, I never thought any of them would come up to an artist's notion of the character, except Byron.
Seite 83 - 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 ? Alas, the warp'd and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye ! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply ! 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.

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