The Lay of the Last Minstrel: A PoemLongman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Paternoster-row, and A. Constable and Company Edinburgh, 1805 - Minstrels - 332 pages |
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Page 8
... 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 . THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL . CANTO FIRST . 8.
... 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 . THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL . CANTO FIRST . 8.
Page 30
... twas silence all ; He meetly stabled his steed in stall , And sought the convent's lonely wall . HERE paused the harp ; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell : Dejectedly , and low , he bowed , And , gazing timid on the ...
... twas silence all ; He meetly stabled his steed in stall , And sought the convent's lonely wall . HERE paused the harp ; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell : Dejectedly , and low , he bowed , And , gazing timid on the ...
Page 51
... twas said to me . XXIII . " Now hie thee hence , " the father said ; " And when we are on death - bed laid , O may our dear Ladye , and sweet St John , Forgive our souls for the deed we have done ! " The Monk returned him to his cell ...
... twas said to me . XXIII . " Now hie thee hence , " the father said ; " And when we are on death - bed laid , O may our dear Ladye , and sweet St John , Forgive our souls for the deed we have done ! " The Monk returned him to his cell ...
Page 56
... his courser held , And held his crested helm and spear . That dwarf was scarcely an earthly man , If the tales were true that of him ran Through all the Border , far and near . ' Twas said , when the Baron a hunting rode 56.
... his courser held , And held his crested helm and spear . That dwarf was scarcely an earthly man , If the tales were true that of him ran Through all the Border , far and near . ' Twas said , when the Baron a hunting rode 56.
Page 57
A Poem Walter Scott. ' Twas said , when the Baron a hunting rode , Through Reedsdale's glens , but rarely trod , He heard a voice cry , " Lost ! lost ! lost ! " And , like tennis - ball by raquet tossed , A leap , of thirty feet and ...
A Poem Walter Scott. ' Twas said , when the Baron a hunting rode , Through Reedsdale's glens , but rarely trod , He heard a voice cry , " Lost ! lost ! lost ! " And , like tennis - ball by raquet tossed , A leap , of thirty feet and ...
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Common terms and phrases
ancient arms band bard Baron beneath betwixt Bewcastle blaze blood blood-hound Border Branksome Branksome Hall Branksome's brave Buccleuch called CANTO castle Cessford chapel chief clan courser cross Cumberland dæmons Dame dark dead devyll Douglas dread Duke Earl Earl of Angus Eildon hills English Ettricke Forest fair on Carlisle fight friends hall hand harp Hawick heard highnes horse Howard James Jedburgh king Kirkwall knight Ladye laird lands LAST MINSTREL Liddesdale Lord Dacre Margaret Melrose Michael MINSTREL moss-trooper Musgrave Naworth Castle ne'er never noble o'er ride rode Roslin round rung sayd Scot Scotland Scottish Scottish Border shew shulde Sir William slain song spear St Clair steed stone stood sun shines fair sword Teviot's Teviotdale thee theyme theyre Thomas Musgrave thou Tinlinn tomb tower Twas tyme Virgilius Walter Scott warden warrior wave ween wild William of Deloraine wound XXIII
Popular passages
Page 22 - In Eske or Liddel, fords were none, But he would ride them, one by one ; Alike to him was time or tide, December's snow, or July's pride ; Alike to him was tide or time, Moonless midnight, or matin prime : Steady of heart, and stout of hand, As ever drove prey from Cumberland ; Five times outlawed had he been, By England's King, and Scotland's Queen.
Page 162 - From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, — Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Page 7 - Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied: For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease Which marks security to please...
Page 139 - True love's the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven : It is not fantasy's hot fire, Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; It liveth not in fierce desire, With dead desire it doth not die ; It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body and in soul can bind.
Page 182 - Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle...
Page 192 - That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day?
Page 3 - Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by .an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well-a-day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest.
Page 44 - Some of his skill he taught to me ; And, warrior, I could say to thee The words that cleft Eildon hills in three, And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone...
Page 162 - O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill.
Page 161 - BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand...