Old English Poetry

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John Duncan Ernst Spaeth
Princeton University Press, 1921 - English poetry - 268 pages
 

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Page 224 - And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men!
Page vi - The only true motive for putting poetry into a fresh language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far as possible, with one more possession of beauty.
Page 227 - Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," Said then the lost Archangel, " this the seat That we must change for Heaven?— this mournful gloom For that celestial light ? Be it so, since He Who now is...
Page 242 - He said that about noon, when the day was already beginning to decline, he saw with his own eyes the trophy of a cross of light in the heavens, above the sun, and bearing the inscription,
Page 236 - From the cross-bar of the spear was suspended a cloth, a royal piece, covered with a profuse embroidery of most brilliant precious stones; and which, being also richly interlaced with gold, presented an indescribable degree of beauty to the beholder. This banner was of a square form...
Page 249 - That warrior on his strong war-horse, fire flashes through his eyes; force dwells in his arm and heart; but warrior and war-horse are a vision; a revealed Force, nothing more. Stately they tread the Earth, as if it were a firm substance: fool! the Earth is but a film; it cracks in twain, and warrior and war-horse sink beyond plummet's sounding.
Page 228 - At last his sail-broad vans He spreads for flight, and in the surging smoke Uplifted spurns the ground...
Page 235 - ... he sat in the midst of them, and described to them the figure of the sign he had seen, bidding them represent it in gold and precious stones.
Page 213 - The dreadfull fish, that hath deserv'd the name Of Death, and like him lookes in dreadfull hew, The griesly wasserman, that makes his game The flying ships with...
Page 255 - The Hag. THE hag is astride This night for to ride, The devil and she together ; Through thick and through thin, Now out and then in, Though ne'er so foul be the weather. A thorn or a burr She takes for a spur ; With a lash of a bramble she rides now, Through brakes and through briars, O'er ditches and mires, She follows the spirit that guides now.

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