The Miscellaneous Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott: Biographical memoirs of eminent novelists

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Baudry's European Library, 1838
 

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Page 190 - I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand ; I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles...
Page 237 - O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
Page 282 - Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand : Why dost thou lash that whore ? strip thine own back ; Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind, For which thou whipp'st her.
Page 144 - Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Page 185 - It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote ; At last men came to set me free...
Page 261 - Or, would'st thou lose thyself, and catch no harm ? And find thyself again without a charm ? Would'st read thyself, and read thou know'st not what, And yet know whether thou art blest or not, By reading the same lines ? O, then, come hither ; And lay my book, thy head and heart together.
Page 376 - ... crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past...
Page 344 - It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, there was silence, and I heard a voice, saying, ""Shall mortal man be more just than God?
Page 192 - And even since, and now, fair Italy ! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature (') can decree ; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste ; More rich than other climes' fertility ; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
Page 194 - Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday All this rush'd with his blood Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

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