Waverly Novels: Peveril of the Peak. 1858

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Ticknor and Fields, 1864
 

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第 78 頁 - I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history : And, questionless, here in this open court, Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather, some men lie...
第 233 頁 - Goes on to sea, and knows not to retire. With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves : Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length, She seems a sea-wasp flying on the waves.
第 150 頁 - A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay, And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
第 244 頁 - Some of their chiefs were princes of the land; In the first rank of these did Zimri stand, A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome...
第 285 頁 - Pierre, whene'er thou seest my fears Betray me less, to rip this heart of mine Out of my breast, and show it for a coward's.
第 23 頁 - There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, That raised emotions both of rage and fear; And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Hope withering fled, and Mercy sigh'd farewell!
第 5 頁 - I view, All in the merry moonlight tippling dew. Even the last lingering fiction of the brain, The churchyard ghost, is now at rest again.
第 90 頁 - Nae langer she wept^— her tears were a' spent,— Despair it was come, and she thought it content; She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale, And she droop'd, like a lily broke down by the hail.
第 251 頁 - Madness but meanly represents my rage.' And then, again, that little, soft, shy, tearful trembler, for Statira, to hear her recite — ' He speaks the kindest words, and looks such things, Vows with such passion, swears with so much grace, That 'tis a kind of heaven to be deluded by him.
第 255 頁 - The country rings around with loud alarms, And raw in fields the rude militia swarms; Mouths without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence; Stout once a month they march, a blustering band, And ever, but in times of need, at hand...

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