Let us do or die.
O'er Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry.
There was silence deep as death, and the boldest held his breath for a time.
What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod its Maker mean'd not should be trod by man, the image of his God, erect and free, unscourged by Superstition's rod.
Like angel visits, few and far between.
Of Nelson and the North sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of Denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone.
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook.
This was not the very finest quality of weaving with gold thread, of the kind that was being produced for the leading courts of the day by the Brussels workshops. Rather, it reflects the sort of medium-quality tapestries that the Florence workshops were producing at this time for use in the Medici palaces. Still, the pride they must have felt, knowing this would be destined to go to Como. Tapestry was such an important part of the theatrical presentation of the day. It was the whole stage set against which the formal side of life was acted out.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; she, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes.
Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse, one hopeless, dark idolater of chance, content to feed with pleasures unrefin'd, the lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; who mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust, in joyless union wedded to the dust, could all his parting energy dismiss, and call this barren world sufficient bliss?
The meteor flag of England.
Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.
When the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes.
Oh, leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!
The more we live, more brief appear our life's succeeding stages; a day to childhood seems a year, and years like passing ages.
To bear is to conquer our fate.
While memory watches o'er the sad review of joys that faded like the morning dew.
Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day when the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!... Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; for, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, but man cannot cover what God would reveal. 'Tis the sunset of Lefe gives me mystical lore, and coming events cast their shadows before.
On Linden, when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow, and dark as winter was the flow of Iser, rolling rapidly.
The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, or, crush'd in its ruins, to die!