Essays on the Poets: And Other English Writers

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Ticknor and Fields, 1853 - 296页
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第175页 - twould a saint provoke," (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ;} " No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead — And — Betty — give this cheek a little red.
第34页 - The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun ; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising ; There are forty feeding like one...
第12页 - The pleasure-house is dust : behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom ; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. "She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known ; But at the coming of the milder day These monuments shall all be overgrown.
第257页 - When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not : in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills and they To heaven.
第180页 - For modes of faith, let graceless zealots fight; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right; In faith and hope the world will disagree.
第62页 - The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
第53页 - I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was, When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, And wept, I knew not why; until there rose From the near schoolroom, voices, that, alas! Were but one echo from a world of woes — The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.
第42页 - O almighty one, I tremble and obey ! " O Spirit ! centuries have set their seal On this heart of many wounds, and loaded brain, Since the Incarnate came : humbly he came, Veiling his horrible Godhead in the shape Of man, scorned by the world, his name unheard, Save by the rabble of his native town, Even as a parish demagogue.
第171页 - NOTHING so true as what you once let fall, " Most women have no characters at all." Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. How many pictures of one nymph we view...
第53页 - I will be wise, And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannize Without reproach or check.

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