Narrative of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart, Volume 2

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Page 225 - My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy : how dost, my boy ? art cold ? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow ? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee.
Page 383 - Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife, To all the sensual world proclaim — One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.
Page 398 - 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. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way ; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek ; Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten...
Page 4 - They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs...
Page 94 - Come on, sir. Now you set your foot on shore In Novo Orbe, here's the rich Peru: And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Great Solomon's Ophir!
Page 372 - his own bitterness ; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.
Page 43 - MINE be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Page 2 - I lie simmering over things for an hour or so before I get up, and there's the time I am dressing to overhaul my half-sleeping, half-waking projet de chapitre ; and when I get the paper before me, it commonly runs off pretty easily. Besides, I often take a doze in the plantations, and while Tom marks out a dike or a drain as I have directed, one's fancy may be running its ain riggs in some other world.
Page 340 - A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; 5 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Page 330 - It strange, dear author, yet it true is, That, down from Pharamond to Louis, All covet life, yet call it pain: All feel the ill, yet shun the cure: Can sense this paradox endure? Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine. The man in graver tragic known (Though his best part long since was done) Still on the stage desires to tarry: And he who play'd the Harlequin, After the jest still loads the scene Unwilling to retire, though weary.

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