Tales and Sketches

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Nimmo, 1872 - 389 pages
 

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Page 104 - His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek ; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime.
Page 97 - It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd ; How best o...
Page 117 - The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakespeare.
Page 73 - Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
Page 107 - Shakespeare discerns the characters of men, with which he catches the many changing hues of life, forms a sort of problem in the science of- mind, of which it is easier to see the truth than to assign the cause. Though I am very far from meaning to compare...
Page 102 - If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — By nature's law designed, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn...
Page 181 - Here and there a herring glittered bright in the meshes, or went darting away through the pitchy darkness, visible for a moment by its own light. The fourth net was brighter than any of the others, and glittered through the waves while it was yet several fathoms away; the pale green seemed as if mingled with broken...
Page 219 - I waded through its shallows, whan a boy, to set my little scautling-line for the trouts an' the eels, or to gather the big pearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords. But its bonny wooded banks are places for enjoying the day in — no for passing the nicht. I kenna how it is; it's nane o' your wild streams that wander desolate through a desert country, like the Aven, or that come rushing down in foam and thunder, ower broken rocks, like the Foyers, or that wallow in darkness, deep, deep in the...

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