Poems of Places: Scotland, Denmark, Iceland, Norway, and SwedenHenry Wadsworth Longfellow J.R. Osgood and Company, 1876 - English poetry |
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Page 12
... of our life is gone ! O land of the morn - bright mountains With the purple moors at their feet , Of the clear leaf - mirroring fountains And rivers of waters sweet ; Of the fragrant wood 12 POEMS OF PLACES . DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA.
... of our life is gone ! O land of the morn - bright mountains With the purple moors at their feet , Of the clear leaf - mirroring fountains And rivers of waters sweet ; Of the fragrant wood 12 POEMS OF PLACES . DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA.
Page 25
... feet lave , As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave . Flow gently , sweet Afton , among thy green braes , Flow gently , sweet river , the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream , Flow gently , sweet ...
... feet lave , As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave . Flow gently , sweet Afton , among thy green braes , Flow gently , sweet river , the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream , Flow gently , sweet ...
Page 29
... the latch , 66 The willing latch that says , Come in . " Plain dwelling this ! a narrow door , No carpet by soft sandals trod , --- But just for peasant's feet a floor , Small ALLOWAY . 29 ALLOWAY BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS BURNS.
... the latch , 66 The willing latch that says , Come in . " Plain dwelling this ! a narrow door , No carpet by soft sandals trod , --- But just for peasant's feet a floor , Small ALLOWAY . 29 ALLOWAY BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS BURNS.
Page 30
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. --- But just for peasant's feet a floor , Small kingdom for a child of God ! Yet here was Scotland's noblest born , And here Apollo chose to light ; And here those large eyes hailed the morn That had for ...
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. --- But just for peasant's feet a floor , Small kingdom for a child of God ! Yet here was Scotland's noblest born , And here Apollo chose to light ; And here those large eyes hailed the morn That had for ...
Page 32
... feet have pressed The Switzer's snow , the Arab's sand , Or trod the piled leaves of the west , My own green forest - land ; All ask the cottage of his birth , Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung , And gather feelings not of earth His ...
... feet have pressed The Switzer's snow , the Arab's sand , Or trod the piled leaves of the west , My own green forest - land ; All ask the cottage of his birth , Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung , And gather feelings not of earth His ...
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Common terms and phrases
amang Auchtertool auld Ballochmyle banks of Ayr Ben Lomond beneath Bennachie birds birks birks of Aberfeldy Blaavin blaw blithe bloom blue bonnie Doon bonnie lass bosom bower Branksome Hall brave breast BRIG bright Carmyle Castle Castle-Gordon clouds Clyde Coquet Water corri crag Craig Elachie Craigcrook Craigie Hill Craigie Lea dark David Macbeth Moir dear deep dewy dream fair Farewell flowers foam frae Gadie rins gleaming glen gloom gray green ha'e hath heart heaven Highland hundred pipers lassie lo'ed Lomond lone loud Mary mony morn mountain mourn mournfully ne'er night o'er proud River roar Robert Burns Robert Tannahill rock round sang scene shade shore sing Sir Walter Scott smile solitude of Binnorie Stand fast stray stream summer sweet thee thine torrents towers tree vale wander wave weary wild William Wordsworth wind wood of Craigie
Popular passages
Page 1 - BREATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well...
Page 56 - Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast...
Page 168 - Lo !. the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements...
Page 73 - Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw...
Page 55 - O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi...
Page 170 - Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.
Page 197 - I have almost forgot the taste of fears : The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in 't : I have supp'd full with horrors ; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.
Page 25 - Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Page 183 - YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o
Page 39 - Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig; There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross! But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake; For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle!