Portugal Illustrated: In a Series of Letters

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Treuttel, Würtz, and Richter, 1828 - Portugal - 500 pages
 

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Page 194 - ... proclaims that happiest spot his own, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease; The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his Gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is, at home.
Page 213 - Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state With daring aims irregularly great ; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by...
Page 156 - Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil : hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science, blinds The eyesight of Discovery ; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind, Bestial, a meager intellect. unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Page 389 - With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
Page 322 - Smooth to the shelving brink a copious flood Rolls fair and placid; where collected all, In one impetuous torrent, down the steep It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round.
Page 299 - Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And ev'n those ills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms...
Page 398 - Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield.
Page 122 - The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
Page 112 - Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates...
Page 224 - Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh ! ihere is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.

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