The Stanley tales, original and select, Volumes 1-3

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Page 268 - The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Page 116 - ... and accomplishment of the most refined ones ; every better feeling warm and vivid, every ungentle one repressed or overcome. He was not addicted to love ; but he felt himself happy in being the friend of Mademoiselle La Roche, and sometimes envied her father the possession of such a child. After a journey of eleven days, they arrived at the dwelling of La Roche. . It was situated in one of those valleys of the canton of Berne, where Nature seems to repose, as it were, in quiet, and has enclosed...
Page 281 - tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world : kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.
Page 128 - s heart was smitten ; and I have heard him, long after, confess that there were moments when the remembrance overcame him even to weakness ; when, amidst all the pleasures of philosophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, he recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche, and wished that he had never doubted.
Page 171 - Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah, no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one, arise — we come, we come!
Page 111 - s, the finer and more delicate sensibilities are seldom known to have place; or, if originally implanted there, are in a great measure extinguished by the exertions of intense study and profound investigation. Hence the idea of philosophy and...
Page 171 - Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush?— our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred, grant but three To make a new Thermopylae!
Page 120 - ... the exquisite pleasure derived from music, you regret your want of musical powers and musical feelings ; it is a department of soul, you say, which nature has almost denied you, which, from the effects you see it have on others, you are sure must be highly delightful. Why should not the same thing be said of religion? Trust me I feel it in the same way, an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for all the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the world ; yet so far from lessening my relish...
Page 171 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
Page 118 - Come near to me, William; kneel down by the bed-side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved son ; for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the churchyard, beside her whose sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my soul.

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