United States or Hungary ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"Thou stand'st as if some mystery thou didst." "What was that 'mystery'?" asks Mr. And what has all this to do with Ben's commendatory verses for the Folio, two years later? Mr. Let us suppose that he was: what has that to do with Ben's verses for the Folio? Does Mr.
Now the space between Is passed at length; and garmented in green Even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day." "Bless love and hope.
"Where'er thou stand'st, I'll level at that place My gushing blood, and spout it at thy face; Thus not by marriage we our blood will join; Nay, more, my arms shall throw my head at thine." "It is no shame," says Dryden himself, "to be a poet, though it is to be a bad one." Gray, ubi supra, p. 38.
"Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire, To come, in which all empires shall expire." Truly, when we glance back at the national career of the Russians, they can not but strike us as a wonderful people.
But, ah, alas! her little fort Is compassed about; Her foes about her thick resort, Within and eke without. How numerous are they now grown! How wicked their intent! O let thy mighty power be shown, Their mischief to prevent. They make assaults on every side, But Thou stand'st in the gap; Their batt'ring-rams make breaches wide, But still Thou mak'st them up.
Stand'st thou not blooming there in youthful prime While each step leads her towards the expecting tomb? By Heavens, I hope thou wilt full many a year Walk o'er the Stuart's grave, and ne'er become Thyself the instrument of her sad end. BURLEIGH. Lord Leicester hath not always held this tone.
A keel nears the shoal; From the slime and the mud Crawl the newt and the adder, The spawn the of flood. Thou stand'st on the rock Where the dreamer beheld thee. O soul, spread thy wings, Ere the glamour hath spell'd thee. O, dread is the tempter, And strong the control; But conquer'd the tempter, If firm be the soul"
Or if, in Music's festive hall, I come to cheat me of my care, Amid the swell, the dying fall, His genius greets me there. O man of bronze! thy solemn air Best soother of a troubled brain Floods me with memories, and again As thou stand'st visibly to men, Beloved musician! so once more Crawford comes back that did thy form restore. Well, requiescat! let him pass!
These shalt thou see, dim shadowed through the dark, Which makes the sky of Pluto's dreary shore; Lo! where thou stand'st, pale-gazing on the bark, That waits our rite to bear thee trembling o'er! Come, then! no more delay! the phantom pines Amidst the Unburied for its latest home; O'er the grey sky the torch impatient shines Come, mourner, forth! the lost one bids thee come.
Word Of The Day