Acrostics in prose and verse, a sequel to Double acrostics by various authors, ed. by A.E.H.

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Page 178 - And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance. And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix...
Page 241 - If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them : The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out.
Page 172 - All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key; As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate.
Page 211 - Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts Were always downward bent, admiring more The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed In vision beatific.
Page 175 - O good old man ; how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed...
Page 178 - Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Page 184 - ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise ; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.
Page 211 - This day is called the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day.
Page 209 - What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Page 198 - While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign.

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