The Duke of Alba in Flanders: Or, The Amnesty. An Historical Novel of the Sixteenth Century...

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Pàgina 259 - He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And ever and anon he beat...
Pàgina 146 - From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix'd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch...
Pàgina 140 - Him the Almighty Power Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
Pàgina 96 - A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i...
Pàgina 78 - Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chilness to my .trembling heart.
Pàgina 114 - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,— when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Pàgina 33 - And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information amongst the rest, that -'Trifles light as air, Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong, As proofs of Holy Writ.
Pàgina 278 - Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not Chaos is come again.
Pàgina 230 - Yet, strange ! the living lay it not to heart. See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle ! Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand Digs thro...
Pàgina 177 - But see, thy brother Marcus bends this way! I sicken at the sight. Once more, farewell, Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me, if thou think'st Ever was love, or ever grief, like mine. (Exit) Enter MARCUS MARC. Portius, what hopes? How stands she? Am I doom'd To life or death?

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