The poetical works of sir Walter Scott. With memoir and critical dissertation, Volúmenes 1-2

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Página 86 - Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Página 313 - At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had pealed the banner-cry of hell...
Página 103 - That day of wrath, .that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay ? How shall he meet that dreadful day...
Página 278 - Returned the chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before: — " Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I.
Página 312 - That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread ? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams...
Página 3 - Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied; For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease Which marks security to please ; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brain — He tried to tune his harp in vain.
Página 86 - Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand...
Página 4 - In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along: The present scene, the future lot, His toils, his wants, were all forgot: Cold diffidence, and age's frost, In the full tide of song were lost : Each blank, in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied ; And, while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.
Página 9 - Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone; The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone.
Página 18 - When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die...

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