The Standard elocutionist; and gem-book of British authors, ed. by A. Cunningham

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A. Cunningham
1850
 

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Page 161 - There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it ; I have killed many ; I have fully glutted my vengeance ; for my country 1 rejoice at the beams of peace.
Page 70 - THE boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.
Page 176 - The winding-sheet of Edward's race ; Give ample room, and verge enough, The characters of hell to trace ; Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing King!
Page 165 - That, with the hurly," death itself awakes ? Can'st thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down ! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Page 176 - Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey.
Page 116 - The Border slogan rent the sky ! A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : Loud were the clanging blows ; Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose ; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered 'mid the foes.
Page 101 - Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there — my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve...
Page 15 - See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.
Page 80 - My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead...
Page 150 - Out of my grief and my impatience Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns, and drums, and wounds, — God save the mark!

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