The Ingoldsby Legends: Or, Mirth and Marvels

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W. J. Widdleton, 1865

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Página 287 - tis a fearsome thing to see That pale wan man's mute agony, — The glare of that wild, despairing eye, Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, The path of the Spirit's unknown career ; Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er Shall be lifted again, — not even in prayer; That heaving chest!
Página 87 - Statutes in that case made and provided, and against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown, and dignity.
Página 210 - Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur. Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown...
Página 209 - The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ! Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree — In sooth a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Página 286 - On all — save the wretch condemn'd to die Alack ! that ever so fair a Sun As that which its course has now begun, Should rise on such a scene of misery ! — Should gild with rays so light and free That dismal, dark-frowning...
Página 25 - Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night...
Página 213 - t was really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it...
Página 61 - I know not how to thank you. Rude I am In speech and manners : never till this hour Stood I in such a presence...
Página 213 - never had known such a pious Jackdaw ! ' He long lived the pride of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died ; When, as words were too faint, his merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint ! And on...
Página 212 - The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn ; When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! No longer gay, As on yesterday ; His feathers all...

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