Grace Darling, the Maid of the Isles

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W. & T. Fordyce, Dean street.--To be had also of the booksellers in London, Edinburgh, 1839 - 480 páginas

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Página 172 - And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy...
Página 24 - Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime, Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime — The image of eternity — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Página 306 - AS a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
Página 398 - Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good.
Página 172 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the Tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by Death revealed!
Página 7 - Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven ; And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head...
Página 40 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Página 129 - What Exile from himself can flee ? To zones though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life— the demon Thought.
Página 297 - Oh, sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel's lay Open her bosom's glowing veil, Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one!
Página 225 - And now, lash'd on by destiny severe, With horror fraught, the dreadful scene drew near! The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath!— In vain, alas! the sacred shades of yore Would arm the mind with philosophic lore; In vain they'd teach us, at the latest breath, To smile serene amid the pangs of death.

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