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Yes, we will have the Latimers and any one else we choose, and be really like civilized people. I hope Gertrude can get back." "Oh, I do hope so!" she re-echoes. The next morning he takes Violet and Cecil out for a long drive, way up the river. It is the last day of March, and there is a softness in the air, a bluish mist over the river, and a tender gray green on the hillsides.
All Italy, the seacoasts of Liguria, and the Lombards are made free by the Confederates. 'We owe to them, they confess, 'what liberated Greece once owed to Titus Quinctius. The sound of the trumpet re-echoes through cities, towns, and villages; and bells ring. Scholars, clergy and preachers proclaim from the pulpit; 'Ye are God's people.
He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square, The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare; And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream, And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam; And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched, And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched, Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm, And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm.
The woman who has been sewing drops her work to shrug one rounded shoulder as though she were cold, and ask conciliatorily: "Well, WHAT province do you belong to?" "I?" the young fellow re-echoes as he subsides on to his heels. "I belong to Penza. Why do you ask?" "Oh never mind why."
Again and again his music re-echoes the cry, "I will not let Thee go unless Thou bless me." Of modern composers Bruckner alone had affair so steadily with the heights, and Franck is the gentler, sweeter, tenderer of the two. He set himself, quite in the fashion of the composers of the dying renaissance, to write an hundred hymns to the Virgin.
Silence reigns, but, as I move, the sound of my footsteps echoes and re-echoes beneath the vaulted roof of the corridor. All this gives to my cell the aspect of a funeral vault, into which, a few moments ago, I entered full of feverish life and vibrating emotion, and in which I now suddenly find myself buried.
The girl was specially attracted by "The Buffalo Battery," a rollicking lyric known to all Anglo-India from Peshawur to Tuticorin. The air is the familiar one of the "Hen Convention," and the opening verse runs in this wise: I love to hear the sepoy with his bold and martial tread, And the thud of the galloping cavalry re-echoes through my head.
The red arm'd belle Here shows her tasty gown, proud to be thought The butterfly of fashion: and forsooth Her haughty mistress deigns for once to tread The same unhallow'd floor. `Tis hurry all And rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here, And waiter there, and waiter here and there, At once is call'd Joe Joe Joe Joe Joe Joe on the right and Joe upon the left, For ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe.
Chew hard as ever you can, if you tell Fannie, “There aren't any more plantations,” it echoes and re-echoes and shrieks at you from the four sides of Christendom. But holler, “Fannie, there ain't no more plantations!” and it is like the gentle purring of a home cat by comparison.
Doubtless his heart must have deeply suffered; his behaviour denotes the keenness of his woe; his eyes are everflowing fountains of tears; his bosom the habitation of sighs; five hundred leagues hath he measured in a pilgrimage to her tomb; nightly he visits the dreary vault where she now lies at rest; her solitary grave is his couch; he converses with darkness and the dead, until each lonely aisle re-echoes his distress.
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