Comentarios de la gente - Escribir un comentario
No encontramos ningún comentario en los lugares habituales.
Otras ediciones - Ver todas
Alps amusing appeared attempt beautiful Biddy called Caroline certainly Clair close cold Colonel Cleveland conversation dark dear deep delightful earth English exclaimed extremely eyes face fair fall fancy feel followed France French friends give glacier guides hand head hear heard heart Heathcote height hour Italy Lady lake land laughing least leave LETTER light Lindsay live look Lord Lumbercourt marry means mind Miss Miss St Mont morning mountain mule nature never night once party passed perhaps person poor precipice rings road rock round scarcely scene seemed seen side sight snow speak standing stood sublime summit suppose sure Swiss talk tell thing thought thousand town travellers trees turned valley walk whole woman women woods young
Página 119 - O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ! These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.
Página 2 - CALEDONIA ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood...
Página 146 - THE King of France, with twenty thousand men, Went up the hill, and then came down again ; The King of Spain, with twenty thousand more, Climbed the same hill the French had climbed before.
Página 234 - The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, Whose every wave breaks on a living shore Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles.
Página 90 - Is there a heart that music cannot melt ? Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! Is there who ne'er those mystic transports felt Of solitude and melancholy born ? He needs not woo the Muse ; he is her scorn : The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine ; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.
Página 77 - Walked forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. " Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see." " And how should I know your true love From many another one...
Página 234 - For here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable— pipes in the liberal air, Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment— born and dying With the blest tone which made me!
Página 160 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, hi a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.