Across the Atlantic: Letters from France, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and England

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T. B. Peterson, 1868 - 397 páginas
 

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Página 203 - Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old melodious madrigals of love ! And when you think of this, remember too 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
Página 183 - On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Página 358 - Some of them, of large dimensions and elegant architecture, represent temples, sepulchral chapels, mausoleums, pyramids, and obelisks ; others cippi, altars, urns, &c. ; most of them are enclosed with iron railings, and adorned with flowers and shrubs ; and retired s«ats are provided for the convenience and accommodation of kindred and friends.
Página 169 - Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue...
Página 299 - A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name!
Página 145 - Seven weary up-hill leagues we sped, The setting sun to see ; Sullen and grim he went to bed, Sullen and grim went we. Nine sleepless hours of night we passed The rising sun to see ; Sullen and grim he rose again, Sullen and grim rose we.
Página 146 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 0 Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.
Página 102 - Je désire que mes cendres reposent sur les bords de la Seine, au milieu de ce peuple français que j'ai tant aimé.
Página 165 - Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
Página xii - HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY BOUGHT FROM THE FUND BEQUEATHED BY EVERT JANSEN WENDELL (CLASS OF 1882) OF NEW YORK MRS.

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