Guide to English parsing

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第46页 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
第45页 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
第50页 - Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state : From brutes what men, from men what spirits know : • Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
第44页 - Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
第46页 - Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. With the sky above my head. And the grass beneath my feet ; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!
第48页 - Dragged from among the horses feet, With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . Young Blount his...
第48页 - Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head ? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell ALL.
第48页 - I'd use them so That heaven's vault should crack. — She's gone for ever ! — I know when one is dead, and when one lives ; She's dead as earth.
第49页 - It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty...
第50页 - Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon!

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