The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott: With a Memoir of the Author, Volume 8

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Little, Brown, 1857
 

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Page 42 - But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress...
Page 85 - The rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again : That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern ; Hammar-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone : Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet; — back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed...
Page 177 - No, all is hushed, and still as death — 'tis dreadful ! How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof, By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Page 38 - And hence one master passion in the breast. Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.
Page 246 - d his ruthless spear. And hurrying as to havoc near, The Cohorts' eagles flew. In one dark torrent broad and strong, The advancing...
Page 7 - For a Burning Town. If such a description be necessary because it is certain there is one in Virgil, old Troy is ready burnt to your hands. But if you fear that would be thought borrowed, a chapter or two of the theory of the conflagration, well circumstanced, and done into verse, will be a good succedaneum.
Page 7 - That is to say, a poet should never call upon the gods for their assistance, but when he is in great perplexity.
Page 257 - Tis done — but yesterday a King ! And arm'd with Kings to strive — And now thou art a nameless thing : So abject — yet alive ! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive ? — Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Page 248 - Then to the musket-knell succeeds The clash of swords— the neigh of steeds — As plies the smith his clanging trade, Against the cuirass rang the blade ; And while amid their close array The well-served cannon rent their way...
Page 6 - But be sure they are qualities which your patron would be thought to have; and, to prevent any mistake which the world may be subject to, select from the alphabet those capital letters that compose his name, and set them at the head of a dedication before your poem.

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