Ivanhoe;: A Romance, Tom 3

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Archibald Constable and Company Edinburgh; and Hurst, Robinson, and Company 90, Cheapside, London., 1820 - 374
 

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Strona 205 - With priest's and warrior's voice between, No portents now our foes' amaze — Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own. But, present, still though now unseen, When brightly shines the prosperous day! Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, To temper the deceitful ray.
Strona 3 - And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding— which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
Strona 344 - He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered champion. His eyes were closed ; the dark red flush was still on his brow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened ; but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to the pallid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died \ a victim to the violence of his own contending passions. ' This is indeed the judgment of God...
Strona 371 - His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
Strona 204 - When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel...
Strona 205 - Our fathers would not know THY ways, And THOU hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen ! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light ! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp,...

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