Correspondenz-Blatt für die Gelehrten- und Real-Schulen Württembergs, Bind 20;Bind 1873

Forsideomslag
Vaihingen a.d. Enz., 1873
 

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Side 16 - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,— when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Side 16 - Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ! I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes...
Side 17 - O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
Side 6 - Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
Side 17 - ... of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high•blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy. . Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Side 7 - Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?
Side 6 - A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, 'mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar, thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
Side 15 - Tout s'élance, et tout crie : Allons ! Quand le sanglier tombe et roule sur l'arène, Allons, allons! les chiens sont rois! Le cadavre est à nous; payons-nous notre peine, Nos coups de dents et nos abois. Allons! nous n'avons plus de valet qui nous fouaille Et qui se pende à notre cou : Du sang chaud, de la chair, allons...
Side 15 - II meurt, et que la trompe a sonné la curée A toute la meute des chiens, Toute la meute, alors, comme une vague immense, Bondit; alors chaque mâtin Hurle en signe de joie, et prépare d'avance Ses larges crocs pour le festin; Et puis vient la cohue, et les abois féroces Roulent de vallons en vallons; Chiens courants et limiers, et dogues, et molosses, Tout s'élance, et tout crie : Allons!
Side 142 - Inhalt: I. Name, Begriff und Umfang der Philologie. — II. Die einzelnen Disciplinen der Philologie.

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