My life, by the author of 'Stories of Waterloo'.

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Page 154 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
Page 70 - Let it be so! thy truth then be thy dower! For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist and cease to be...
Page 117 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms - the day Battle's magnificently stern array...
Page 240 - Oh! too convincing dangerously dear In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue at once her spear and shield: Avoid it Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! What lost a world, and hade a hero fly ? The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
Page 192 - You stole her from me ; like a thief you stole her, At dead of night ! that cursed hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear. May all your joys in her prove false, like mine ! A sterile fortune and a barren bed Attend you both : continual discord make Your days and nights bitter, and grievous still ! May the hard hand of a vexatious need Oppress and grind...
Page 104 - Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.
Page 51 - And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
Page 197 - Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain : If thou hadst died as honour dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night ? Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay; Thy scales, Mortality!
Page 81 - A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town!
Page 45 - It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; A gentlemanly distance, not too near, If you have got a former friend for foe ; But after being fired at once or twice, The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.

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