Scotland, Denmark, Iceland, Norway, and Sweden

Houghton, Mifflin, 1876

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Side 51 - Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye shew? My noble partner You greet with present grace, and great prediction Of noble having, and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal ; to me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of Time, And say, which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate.
Side 139 - I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 'And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For, should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. 'His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ?' Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, '111 go, my chief.!
Side 140 - I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! — oh my daughter...
Side 73 - This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate.
Side 83 - Merrily, merrily, goes the bark On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea. The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, And Ulva dark and Colonsay, And all the group of islets gay That guard famed Staffa round.
Side 130 - But here, — above, around, below, On mountain or in glen, Nor tree nor shrub nor plant nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power, The weary eye may ken ; For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone...
Side 66 - On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning bell; And then they knew the perilous rock And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
Side 160 - Thou know'st it well, — nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land.
Side 243 - Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play, But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie: The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border; The English, for ance, by guile wan the day: The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.
Side 156 - AVAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love...

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