The Light of Scarthey: A Romance

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Fredrick A. Stokes Company, 1899 - 434 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 146 - A prison is a house of care. A place where none can thrive, A touchstone true to try a friend, A grave for one alive. Sometimes a place of right. Sometimes a place of wrong, Sometimes a place of rogues and thieves, And honest men among.
Pàgina 45 - Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old!
Pàgina 414 - ... her away, they note with horror that her face is dark and swollen, as if the cord that had just done its evil work yonder had been tightened also round her slender throat. CHAPTER XXXIV THE GIBBET ON THE SANDS Woman ! take up thy life once more Where thou hast left it; Nothing is changed for thee, thou art the same, Thou who didst think that all things Would be wholly changed for thee.
Pàgina 55 - As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him...
Pàgina xv - The good old rule, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
Pàgina 8 - And when he awakes, his heart Is afraid for the bitter cold. Didst thou mark how the swallows flew, so swiftly away from hence ? AT A GRAVE.
Pàgina 432 - Song. IT was on the fifth day after Sir Adrian's return to his island home. Outwardly the place was the same. A man had been engaged to attend to the lighthouse duties, but he and his wife lived apart in their own corner of the building and never intruded into the...
Pàgina 62 - An' it were truth then, an' I that towd Renny to give over his nonsense — I didn't believe it, I welly couldn't. Eh, Mester Adrian, but she's like the poor lady that's dead and gone, the spit an...
Pàgina 97 - THE MAIDEN'S BLOOD. UPON an evening in the month of May, When from the heavens like a burning tear The sun dropped down, Then did the blood awaken in the veins Of the young maiden wand'ring through the fields. Then the blood cried to her, And the blood burned in her, And as it burned within her, thus it spake : " What art thou making, maiden, of thy youth ? What wilt thou make of me ? I tire of this light tripping to and fro, This idle running through thy strong young frame.
Pàgina xiv - The story is one of Adrian Landale, a young English nobleman of a hundred years ago — " The days when in Liverpool the privateers were daily fitting out or bringing in the 'prizes' . . . the days of war and the fortunes of war ; days of press gangs to kidnap unwilling rulers of the waves "; days of " the now rather incomprehensible pursuit of gold-smuggling — a romantic subject if ever there was one.

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