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 176 - 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 150 - 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 51 - 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 178 - 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 124 - While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright Turn'd fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns Their phalanx, and began to hem him round With ported spears, as thick as when a field Of Ceres, ripe for harvest, waving bends Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind Sways them ; the careful ploughman doubting stands, Lest on the threshing-floor his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff.
Page 164 - 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 146 - ... 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.
Page 150 - For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed...
Page 172 - THESE, in the day when heaven was falling, The hour when earth's foundations fled, Followed their mercenary calling And took their wages and are dead.
Page 162 - A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That...

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