The Irish Legend; Or, M'Donnell, and the Norman De Borgos: A Biographical Tale

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A. Gross, 1846 - 238 páginas
 

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Página 3 - That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine.
Página 3 - Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song...
Página 3 - ... still. Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine ; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.
Página 73 - Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse ! The thin-maned, highheaded, strong-hoofed, fleet, bounding son of the hill : his name is Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine in a wreath of foam.
Página 157 - Her fruitful soil forever teems with wealth, With gems her waters and her air with health. Her verdant fields with milk and honey flow, Her woolly fleeces vie with virgin snow ; Her waving furrows float with bearded corn, And arms and arts her envied sons adorn. No savage bear with lawless fury roves...
Página 87 - Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet ; there the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes its white head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk in the ground, show their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing there.
Página 73 - The thin-maned, high-headed, stronghoofed, fleet, bounding son of the hill : his name is Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright-studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of eagles descending on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on...
Página 192 - I hear not the Fount of the Rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar I go to the Wars of Fingal. My Dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the Hill. No more from on high I see thee, fair-moving by the Stream of the Plain ; bright as the Bow of Heaven ; as the Moon on the western Wave.
Página 45 - ... two opposite extremities, and in this were secured the flocks of the surrounding farmers. Still, secure though this fold was deemed, it was entered by the wolves, and its inmates slaughtered. The neighbouring proprietors having heard of the noted wolfhunter...
Página 79 - As the sudden rising of winds ; or distant rolling of troubled seas, when some dark ghost, in wrath heaves the billows over an isle : an isle, the seat of mist, on the deep, for many dark-brown years ! So terrible is the sound of the host, wide-moving over the field. Gaul is tall before them. The streams glitter within his strides. The bards raise the song by his side. He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of the blast, the tuneful voices rise.

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