The Children of the Abbey: A Tale

J.B. Alden, 1884 - 629 Seiten
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Seite 55 - She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: Among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her: All her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies.
Seite 299 - Oh Death ! where is thy sting ? Oh Grave ! where is thy victory ? The sting of Death is sin, and the strength of sin is the Law.
Seite 38 - Awake, awake, my Lyre ! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail ; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark, how the strings awake ! And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try ; Now all thy charms apply ; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure Is useless...
Seite 54 - Spring To weeping fancy pines ; and yon bright arch, Contracted, bends into a dusky vault. All Nature fades extinct : and she alone, Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought, Fills every sense, and pants in every vein. Books are but formal dulness — tedious friends ; And sad amid the social band he sits, Lonely, and unattentive. From his tongue The...
Seite 395 - So often fills his arms ; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? Oh ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour...
Seite 32 - And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
Seite 187 - Where virtue is, these are more virtuous ; Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt ; For she had eyes, and chose me. No, lago ; I'll see before I doubt ; when I doubt, prove : And on the proof, there is no more but this, — Away at once with love or jealousy ! lago.
Seite 165 - At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed; A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. The driving colors, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.
Seite 230 - Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery.
Seite 116 - But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. < And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.

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