The Poetical Works of Sir Walter ScottA. and W. Galignani, 1831 - 490 pages |
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Page xviii
... rude stupidity of which is so apt to excite the derision of a modern reader : at the same time he was to rival , if he could , the force and vivacity of their minute and varied repre- sentations - the characteristic simplicity of their ...
... rude stupidity of which is so apt to excite the derision of a modern reader : at the same time he was to rival , if he could , the force and vivacity of their minute and varied repre- sentations - the characteristic simplicity of their ...
Page xxix
... rudeness and simpli- city of their life and occupations , that they are made interesting and even noble beings , without the least particle of foppery or exaggeration , and delight and amuse us , without trespassing at all on the ...
... rudeness and simpli- city of their life and occupations , that they are made interesting and even noble beings , without the least particle of foppery or exaggeration , and delight and amuse us , without trespassing at all on the ...
Page 1
... rude spirit of chi- valry , were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament . As the description of scenery and manners was more the object of the author than a combined and regular narrative , the plan of the ...
... rude spirit of chi- valry , were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament . As the description of scenery and manners was more the object of the author than a combined and regular narrative , the plan of the ...
Page 12
... rude watchman , on the tower , Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour ; Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd The hour of silence and of rest . On the high turret sitting lone , She waked at times the lute's soft tone ; Touch'd a wild ...
... rude watchman , on the tower , Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour ; Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd The hour of silence and of rest . On the high turret sitting lone , She waked at times the lute's soft tone ; Touch'd a wild ...
Page 14
... rude battlement ; And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear , While ready warriors seized the spear . From Branksome's towers , the watchman's Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy , Which , curling in the rising sun , Show'd southern ...
... rude battlement ; And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear , While ready warriors seized the spear . From Branksome's towers , the watchman's Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy , Which , curling in the rising sun , Show'd southern ...
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Common terms and phrases
ancient arms band bard battle battle of Methven beneath blood blood-hound bold Border Branksome brave breast brow Bruce called CANTO castle chief clan courser dark death deep Deloraine Douglas dread Earl Earl of Angus English Ettrick Forest fair falchion fame fear fell fight fire gallant glance glen grace gray hall hand harp hast hath head hear heard heart heaven Highland hill holy horse Isles James John king knight lady land light Loch Katrine Lord Lorn loud maid mark'd Marmion minstrel Mortham moss-troopers mountain ne'er noble Note o'er pass'd pride Risingham rock Roderick Rokeby round Saint scene Scotland Scots Scott Scottish seem'd Sir Walter Scott slain song sought sound spear Stanza steed stern stone stood SWINTON sword tale tell thee thine thou tide tower turn'd VIPONT wake warrior wave ween wild wind
Popular passages
Page 138 - He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Page 126 - Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Page 92 - O Woman ! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made, When pain and anguish wring the brow A ministering angel...
Page 88 - England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword) I tell thee thou'rt defied!
Page 92 - Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His life-blood stains the spotless shield: Edmund is down; my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left, Let Stanley charge with spur of fire—- With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice? hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone — to die.
Page xxvi - In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along : The present scene, the future lot, His toils, his wants, were all forgot: Cold diffidence, and age's frost, In the full tide of song were lost ; Each blank, in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied : And, while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the latest minstrel sung.
Page 150 - I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band !
Page 88 - Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried : " Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.
Page 92 - Then it was truth," — he said — "I knew That the dark presage must be true. — I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day ! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay. It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand ! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.
Page 151 - Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintain'd unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood ; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed.