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Page 448 - Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.
Page 446 - O thou that, with surpassing glory crowned, Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god Of this new World — at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminished heads — to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 0 Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state 1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere...
Page 446 - O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers, whence are thy beams O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone.
Page 447 - Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Page 445 - I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round...
Page 443 - Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon...
Page 203 - ... invaded the fundamental constitution of the kingdom, and altered it from a legal, limited monarchy to an arbitrary, despotic power, and hath...
Page 451 - The sons of future years shall pass away. Another race shall arise. The people are like the waves of ocean : like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the rustling blast, and other leaves lift their green heads on high.
Page 484 - ... work. When rivers define the limits of abilities, as well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may measure his success, by the latitude under which he was born. It was to avoid a part of this inconvenience, that the Author is said, by some, who speak without any authority, to have ascribed his own productions to another name. If this was the case, he was but young in the art of deception. When he placed the Poet in antiquity, the Translator should have been born on this side of the Tweed.
Page 440 - If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of Cana; If on the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. Her dark hair flowed round it, like the streaming clouds. Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strinadona!