The banks of the Douro; or, The maid of Portugal, Volume 3

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Page 200 - FIdele's grassy tomb, Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
Page 281 - Me miserable ! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
Page 31 - And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse, thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore : What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others
Page 92 - Of new and appropriate metaphors, expressed with a happy felicity of style, the following may serve as a specimen : Once I was happy Clear and serene my life's calm current ran While scarce a breezy wish provok'd its tide ; Down the smooth flood the tuneful passions fell In easy lapse, and slumber'd as they pass'd. From this it may be concluded that they were somnambulists, for their progressive motion was not hindered by sleep. One more instance and I have done. Matilda informs her train, that...
Page 55 - Dark tempest scowling o'er the shorten'd day, And hears, with ear appall'd, the impetuous surge Beneath him thunder! So, with heart opprest, Alone, reluctant, desolate, and slow, By friendship's cheering radiance now unblest, Along life's rudest path I seem to go; Nor see where yet the anxious heart may rest, That trembling at the past recoils from future woe!
Page 225 - To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell: Or midst the chace on ev'ry plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Page 323 - Declining, hide their beauty from the sun, Nor give their spotted bosoms to the gaze Of hasty passenger. On hedge banks the wild germander of a fine azure blue is conspicuous, and the whole surface of meadows is often covered by the yellow crowfoot.
Page 301 - Must I, an exiled outcast, have A father's curse, a mother's tears ? And leave an aged sire to weep His faithless maid of Donalblayne ? " And wilt thou love me, gentle youth, When these few charms for aye are flown 1 " " Sweet maid, this heart with love and truth Shall ever beat for thee alone." No footstep stirred, the winds were hushed, Each eye was closed in balmy rest ; To Marion's arms Lord Malcolm rushed, And clasped the trembler to his breast. The vessel swept the dimpled tide, And bounded...
Page 47 - Glenholme indeed possessed a form Of majesty with youthful beauty grac'd. He was the soldier's idol ; such a spirit Beam'd from his eyes, his presence, like the sun, Gladden'd beholders hearts.

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