Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 第 10 卷William Blackwood, 1821 |
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第379页 - Ye men of Israel, hear these words : Jesus of Nazareth, a man approved of God among you by miracles and wonders and signs, which God did by him in the midst of you, as ye yourselves also know: Him, being delivered by the determinate counsel and foreknowledge of God, ye have taken, and by wicked hands have crucified and slain...
第306页 - But to my mind, — though I am native here, And to the manner born, — it is a custom More honour'd in the breach than the observance.
第110页 - You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?
第110页 - The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea. And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free, For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
第110页 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
第110页 - Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king who buys and sells : In native swords and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells ; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. !$•' Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade...
第110页 - Oh, that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And fhere perhaps some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.
第111页 - Ave Maria! blessed be the hour, The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft...
第107页 - Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast — but place to die — Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
第450页 - Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer cloud, Without our special wonder...