Translation and Translations: Theory and Practice

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G. Bell and sons, Limited, 1922 - Classical literature - 206 pages
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Page 152 - Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, When he comes back ; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms...
Page 108 - Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavour in continual motion ; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience : for so work the honey-bees, Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom.
Page 126 - THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Page 154 - I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring war...
Page 41 - The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Page 140 - When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning?
Page 59 - STRONGLY it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean. THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED. IN the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column ; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
Page 162 - Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes Who either for his own or children's sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house: For being thro...
Page 122 - A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, — No more of me you knew, My love ! No more of me you knew. " This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ;* But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again.
Page 122 - ... glass, Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize ; Now to the maid who has none, sir : Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes; And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.

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