The ten-day tourist; or, Sniffs of the mountain breeze

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A.W. Bennett, 1865 - 170

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Strona 24 - These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then ! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Strona 76 - How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
Strona 76 - CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide ; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling. And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Strona 120 - The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid ; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled...
Strona 119 - The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o'er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its...
Strona 33 - Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, some slumberer wakened nigh; What words the parent's joy can tell, to hear his infant cry ! Concealed beneath a mangled heap his hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep his cherub boy he kissed...
Strona 33 - He called his child — no voice replied — He searched, with terror wild ; Blood, blood he found on every side, But nowhere found his child. " Hell-hound ! my child's by thee devoured," The frantic father cried ; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side.
Strona 120 - Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock...
Strona 34 - And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved ; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass, Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear, And oft as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell ! And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of Gelert's grave.
Strona 32 - Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ? the flower of all his race ! so true, so brave ! a lamb at home — a lion in the chase!

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