Who is the Heir?: A Novel

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Seite 123 - She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Seite 301 - The moon shines dim in the open air, And not a moonbeam enters here. But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously, Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain, For a lady's chamber meet: The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet.
Seite 238 - ELAINE. ELAINE the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure...
Seite 23 - Twas he that put her in the pit, Before he pull'd her out of it ; And as he eats his sons, just so He feeds upon his daughters too. Nor does it follow, 'cause a herald Can make a gentleman,* scarce a year old, To be descended of a race Of ancient kings in a small space, That we should all opinions hold Authentic, that we can make old.
Seite 139 - I should be where I am not ; But where I am, there I must be, And where I would be I can not.
Seite 58 - To hint at an infantine frailty is scandal ; Let bygones be bygones — and somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet — so rosy your toes.
Seite 294 - N'est qu'un jeu. Ma vieille âme Enrageait; Car ma lame, Que rongeait Cette rouille Qui la souille, En quenouille Se changeait. Cette ville, Aux longs cris, Qui profile Son front gris, Des toits frêles, Cent tourelles, Clochers grêles, C'est Paris!
Seite 268 - Droop, droop, soft little eyelids ! Droop over eyes of weird wild blue ! Under the fringe of those tremulous shy lids Glances of love and fun peep through. Sing, sing, sweetest of maidens ! Carol away with thy white little throat ! Echo awakes to the exquisite cadence Here on the magical mere afloat. Dream, dream, heart of my own love ! Sweet is the wind from the odorous south — Sweet is the island we sail to alone, love — Sweet is a kiss from thy ruddy young mouth.
Seite 100 - Sporting with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair...
Seite 103 - ... tourist. While thus proceeding, the little hut or cabin occupied by a descendant of the far-famed Kate Kearney, that dangerous beauty of long ago, and situate at the base of a mountain, was passed. As our friend approached it, the guide — a genuine specimen of that race which springs green and vigorous from the " first flower of the earth and first gem of the sea" — began his legends about the locality: " Do ye see that mountain ?" said he,

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