The knights; or, Sketches of the heroic age, Volume 2

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Page 100 - Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty.
Page 51 - O lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.
Page 38 - The trumpet sounds to war: Loud shouts re-echo from the mountain's side, The din of battle thunders from afar, The foaming torrent rolls a crimson tide; The youthful warrior's breast with ardour glows, In thought he triumphs o'er ten thousand foes : Elate with HOPE, he rushes on, The battle seems already won, The vanquish'd...
Page 100 - Ah little think they, while they dance along. How many feel, this very moment, death And all the fad variety of pain. How many fink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, 330 By fhameful variance betwixt Man and Man.

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