Robert Emmet [by L. de Cléron].

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Page 281 - He had lived for his love — for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him — Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh!
Page 280 - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking — Ah '. little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking...
Page 272 - Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life or a song piped in the intervals of the acts.
Page 278 - She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves.
Page 277 - When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him, — when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, — she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image...
Page 278 - The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay, — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow.
Page 202 - I am going to my cold and silent grave: my lamp of life is nearly extinguished: my race is run: the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world — it is the charity of its silence! Let no man write my epitaph: for as no...
Page 273 - But woman's is comparatively a fixed^ a secluded, and meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none...
Page 83 - Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Page 277 - ... portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

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