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Page 35 - Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din Of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin ! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Page 325 - Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar...
Page 325 - Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
Page 35 - Right graciously he smiled on us, As rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our Lord the King." " And if my standard-bearer fall, As fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet Of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, Amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day The helmet of Navarre.
Page 161 - Thammuz came next behind, Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured The Syrian damsels to lament his fate In amorous ditties all a summer's day ; While smooth Adonis from his native rock Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood Of Thammuz yearly wounded.
Page 324 - The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks ; For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
Page 301 - That an accursed thing it is to gaze On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye...
Page 382 - And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will.
Page 35 - D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, " Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman is my foe : Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.
Page 221 - The style of Dante is, if not his highest, perhaps his most peculiar excellence. I know nothing with which it can be compared. The noblest models of Greek composition must yield to it. His words are the fewest and the best which it is possible to use. The first expression in which he clothes his thoughts is always so energetic and comprehensive, that amplification would only injure the effect. There is probably no writer in any language who has presented so many strong pictures to the mind. Yet there...