A Few Months in the East, Or, A Glimpse of the Red, the Dead, and the Black Seas

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J. Lovell, 1861 - 181 páginas

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Página 144 - The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations;—all were his ! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they?
Página 77 - HOW doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people ! How is she become as a widow ! she that was great among the nations, And princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary!
Página 99 - I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards: I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kinds of fruits: I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees...
Página 80 - The Lord bless thee, and keep thee : the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee : the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.
Página 14 - Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.
Página 81 - God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance ; thy holy temple have they defiled ; they have laid Jerusalem on heaps.
Página 94 - As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the LORD is round about his people from henceforth even for ever.
Página 77 - She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks : among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her: all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies. Judah is gone into captivity because of affliction, and because of great servitude: she dwelleth among the heathen, she findeth no rest: all her persecutors overtook her between the straits.
Página 142 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires
Página 144 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country ? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

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