Sir Walter Scott ( 10 of 46 )
Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But, when I think of all my wrongs
My blood is liquid read more
Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But, when I think of all my wrongs
My blood is liquid flame!
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Lock Katrine blue,
Mildly and soft the western breeze
read more
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Lock Katrine blue,
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees,
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled but dimpled not for joy.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to
answer.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to
answer.
Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes read more
Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
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England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe, And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the read more
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe, And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the rising tear to flow
But with the morning cool repentance came.
But with the morning cool repentance came.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
read more
Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way:
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
