Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 490 To him thou now seest so besmeared with blood?
"The Works of Lord Byron" by Lord Byron
Midget was usually very dainty, and neatly dressed, and this besmeared maiden was a shock to all beholders.
"Marjorie's Busy Days" by Carolyn Wells
A cry was raised immediately that he was besmearing the seat with poison.
"Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds" by Charles Mackay
We slowly raised our mud-besmeared faces.
"Bamboo Tales" by Ira L. Reeves
At sight of his mottled, blood-besmeared visage, the crowd went wild.
"Hidden Gold" by Wilder Anthony
Only the bullet-shattered faces, besmeared with blood, were exposed.
"Blue Ridge Country" by Jean Thomas
Was it honour and fair play to besmear my mother's name, to throw reflections upon my birth?
"The Day of Judgment" by Joseph Hocking
Why, in the mean time, am I delaying to bathe her cruel wounds with the stream, her features, too, besmeared with dreadful blood?
"The Metamorphoses of Ovid" by Publius Ovidius Naso
My body is then besmeared with paint and oil.
"Seven and Nine years Among the Camanches and Apaches" by Edwin Eastman
Here is one, whose face and bare arms are besmeared with soot and ink.
"The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba" by Walter Goodman
Now reigns the rose, and now
Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow
And my retorted hairs.
"To Live Merrily, And To Trust To Good Verses" by Robert Herrick
Extended on a cursed tree,
Besmeared with dust, and sweat, and blood,
See there, the king of glory see!
Sinks and expires the Son of God.
"Hymn XXIII: Extended on a Cursed Tree" by Charles Wesley
With blood besmear'd, and white with foam,
While big the tears of anguish pour,
He seeks, amid the forest's gloom,
The humble hermit's hallow'd bower.
"The Wild Huntsman" by Sir Walter Scott
When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd,
And honor call'd her Henry from her charms.
He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd,
Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms!
"Henry and Eliza" by Thomas Gent
"Thy foe has sunk beneath the spear,—
I'm sent to bear the glad news here,
By thy true marshal Polydore"—
Then from a basin black he takes—
The fearful sight their terror wakes—
A well-known head, besmeared with gore.
"The Ring Of Polycrates - A Ballad" by Friedrich von Schiller