United States or Armenia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Inferno, XXXIII. 94. And the exclamation of one of these poor "wretches of the frozen crust" is an exclamation that Shakespeare might have written: "Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart." "Levatemi dal viso i duri veli, Si ch' io sfoghi il dolor che il cor m' impregna." Ib. 112. There is nothing in Mr.
"Thank you," said Prince Dolor, but almost in a whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his godmother what would they say to one another? how would they look at one another? two such different faces: one harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the other sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins.
How far kings are happy I cannot say, no more than could Prince Dolor, though he had once been a king himself. But he remembered nothing about it, and there was nobody to tell him, except his nurse, who had been forbidden upon pain of death to let him know anything about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or indeed any part of his own history.
Prince Dolor had need to be a king that is, a boy with a kingly nature to be able to stand such a sight without being utterly overcome. But he was very much bewildered as bewildered as a blind person who is suddenly made to see. He gazed down on the city below him, and then put his hand over his eyes. "I can't bear to look at it, it is so beautiful so dreadful.
Fox against the Slave-Trade was the last he ever made in Parliament; and the same sort of melancholy admiration that Pliny expressed, in speaking of a beautiful picture, the painter of which had died in finishing it, "dolor manas dum id ageret, abreptae" comes naturally over our hearts in thinking of the last, glorious work, to which this illustrious statesman, in dying, set his hand.
It threw him back upon himself, and into himself in a way that all of us have to learn when we grow up, and are the better for it; but it is somewhat hard learning. On the sixth day Prince Dolor had a strange composure in his look, but he was very grave and thin and white. He had nearly come to the end of his provisions and what was to happen next?
Possibly a crown would even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls which she began to think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them. She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to "say a word" to Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken if she were to take a pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble a mean, miserable quibble.
The name is sometimes spelt Dolor, suggestive of grief, but its origin is not easy to trace; Hugo seems to be a corruption of the Cornish word fogou, meaning a cave. Johns, who wrote a very interesting book about the Lizard some sixty years since, said that "of all the caves that I have ever inspected, this wears the most perfect air of mysteriousness and solemnity.
He lifted his voice in sonorous dolor, stating that he did not like the cellar and would continue thus to protest as long as he was left in it alone. He added that he was anxious to see Flopit and considered it an unexampled outrage that he was withheld from the opportunity.
Word Of The Day