Ireland in '98: Sketches of the Principal Men of the Time, Based Upon the Published Volumes and Some Unpublished Mss. of the Late Dr. Richard Robert Madden. With Engraved Portraits and Contemporary Illustrations
Swan Sonnenschein, Lowrey, 1888 - 400 pÓgines
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PÓgina 22 - I have always understood it to be the duty of a judge, when a prisoner has been convicted, to pronounce the sentence of the law. I have also understood that judges sometimes think it their duty to hear with patience and to speak with humanity...
PÓgina 26 - My Lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice - the blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled, through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous, that they cry to heaven.
PÓgina 53 - It is nothing less than a confiscation of all property, and an immediate banishment. It would be extremely painful, and surely unnecessary to detail the horrors that attend the execution of so rude and tremendous a proscription.
PÓgina 27 - I am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished ; my race is run ; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world...
PÓgina 38 - She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking ; — Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
PÓgina 18 - On the contrary, it is evident, from the introductory paragraph of the address of the provisional government, that every hazard attending an independent effort was deemed preferable to the more fatal risk of introducing a French army into the country.
PÓgina 55 - The glorious, pious and immortal memory of the great and good King William — not forgetting Oliver Cromwell, who assisted in redeeming us from Popery, slavery, arbitrary power, brass money and wooden shoes.
PÓgina 39 - Every note which he loved awaking — Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love, for his country he died — They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. From her own loved island of sorrow...