Taal en letteren, Volume 14

Front Cover
Foeke Buitenrust Hettema, J. H. van den Bosch, Roeland Anthonie Kollewijn
W.E.J. Tjeenk Willink, 1904 - Dutch philology
Includes section "Boekaankondigingen".
 

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Page 342 - Eirin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow steep : Strains of immortality ! Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death ; Sisters, cease ; the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands ! Songs of joy and triumph sing ! . Joy to the victorious bands ; Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, thro' each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong.
Page 340 - Long on these mould'ring bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain ! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest ? O.
Page 342 - Gondula and Geira, spread > O'er the youthful king your shield. We the reins to slaughter give; Ours to kill, and ours to spare; Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war!) They whom once the desert beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain.
Page 339 - The portals nine of hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, By the moss-grown pile he sate; Where long of yore to sleep was laid The dust of the prophetic maid. Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme; Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the dead: Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breath'da sullen sound.
Page 341 - Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam; Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile Flaming on the fun'ral pile. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose.
Page 341 - Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall Enquirer come To break my iron-sleep again; Till * Lok has burst his tenfold chain. Never, till substantial Night Has reassum'd her ancient right; Till wrap'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, Sinks the fabric of the world.
Page 341 - See the grisly texture grow, ("Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head. Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along Sword, that once a Monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong.
Page 509 - Mir träumt': ich bin der liebe Gott Und sitz' im Himmel droben, Und Englein sitzen um mich her, Die meine Verse loben. Und Kuchen ess' ich und Konfekt Für manchen lieben Gulden, Und Kardinal trink ich dabei Und habe keine Schulden.
Page 342 - Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
Page 341 - Yet a while my call obey. Prophetess, awake, and say, What Virgins these, in speechless woe, That bend to earth their solemn brow, That their flaxen tresses tear, And snowy veils, that float in air. Tell me whence their sorrows rose: Then I leave thee to repose. PR. Ha! no Traveller art thou, King of Men, I know thee now, Mightiest of a mighty line O.

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