Sir Walter Scott ( 10 of 46 )
Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins,
Pity and woe! for read more
Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins,
Pity and woe! for such a mind
Is soft contemplative, and kind.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to
answer.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to
answer.
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Lock Katrine blue,
Mildly and soft the western breeze
read more
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Lock Katrine blue,
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees,
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled but dimpled not for joy.
Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes read more
Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
But with the morning cool repentance came.
But with the morning cool repentance came.
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
read more
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high;
"I drink to one," read more
St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high;
"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead."
. . . .
St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood
Thus lightly to another;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give the word the reverence due,
And gently said, "My mother!"
What skilful limner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,
Unless to mortal it were read more
What skilful limner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,
Unless to mortal it were given
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe, And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the read more
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe, And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the rising tear to flow
