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

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Page 251 - 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...
Page 140 - 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...
Page 134 - 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.
Page 92 - A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i...
Page 74 - 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.
Page 110 - 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.
Page 29 - 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.
Page 270 - Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not Chaos is come again.
Page 224 - 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...
Page 171 - 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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