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Strona 172 - A teacher who can arouse a feeling for one single good action, for one single good poem, accomplishes more than he who fills our memory with rows on rows of natural objects, classified with name and form.
Strona 342 - RYNO The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead!
Strona 343 - ... 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. "Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar!
Strona 343 - Narrow is thy dwelling now ! dark the place of thine abode ! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who \vast so great before ! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. 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.
Strona 340 - STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field.
Strona 342 - Bent is his head of age ; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill ? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood ; as a wave on the lonely shore ? ALPIN. My tears, O Ryno ! are for the dead ; my voice for those that have passed away.
Strona 344 - The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew; but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma!
Strona 431 - They at once consented, particularly as they all hoped in the mean time to hear the news of which Frederick was the bearer. ; A FAIRY TALE. WEARIED with the labours of the day, an old Ferryman lay asleep in his hut, on the bank of a wide river, which the late heavy rains had swollen to an unprecedented height. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a loud cry, — he listened — it was the call of some travellers who wished to be ferried over. Upon opening the door, he was surprised to see...
Strona 341 - It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds ! Rise, moon!
Strona 341 - Why delayest thou thy coming ? Lo ! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone ! "Who lie on the beach beside me ? Are they my love and my brother ? Speak to me, O my friends.