English Literature of Nineteenth Century: On the Plan of the Author's "Compendium of English Literature" and Supplementary to It. Designed for Colleges and Advanced ClassesBancroft, 1869 - 798 страница |
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... feel sure , that the most lenient criticism will be extended to me from those who have most widely viewed and critically examined this illimitable field . There is one new feature of the present edition which , I am confident , will be ...
... feel sure , that the most lenient criticism will be extended to me from those who have most widely viewed and critically examined this illimitable field . There is one new feature of the present edition which , I am confident , will be ...
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... feel from Homer and Milton , so that no man of a true poetical spirit is master of himself while he reads them . Hence , he is a writer fit for universal perusal ; adapted to all ages and stations ; for the old and for the young ; the ...
... feel from Homer and Milton , so that no man of a true poetical spirit is master of himself while he reads them . Hence , he is a writer fit for universal perusal ; adapted to all ages and stations ; for the old and for the young ; the ...
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... feel in their lately 1 For a triumphant refutation of the dan- satisfactory evidence before the tribunal of the gerous doctrines of his Moral Philosophy , read public that he has had foul wrong done unto the Essays on Morality , by that ...
... feel in their lately 1 For a triumphant refutation of the dan- satisfactory evidence before the tribunal of the gerous doctrines of his Moral Philosophy , read public that he has had foul wrong done unto the Essays on Morality , by that ...
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... feel He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest , Drank the last life - drop of his bleeding breast . So sang Lord Byron of that most gifted youth , Henry Kirke White , whose sincere ...
... feel He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest , Drank the last life - drop of his bleeding breast . So sang Lord Byron of that most gifted youth , Henry Kirke White , whose sincere ...
Страница 50
... feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth , Making them rue the hour that gave them birth , And threw them on a world so full of pain , Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth , And to deaf ...
... feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth , Making them rue the hour that gave them birth , And threw them on a world so full of pain , Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth , And to deaf ...
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admiration appeared beautiful Blackwood's Magazine bless born breath called character Charles Lamb child Christian church Coleridge critic dark death delight divine earth Edinburgh Review edition Encyclopædia Britannica England English Essays eyes fame fancy father feel flowers genius glory grace grave hand happy hath heart heaven Henry Kirke White History honor hope hour human labor lady light literary literature lived London look Lord Milton mind moral Moscow nature never night noble North British Review o'er passion pleasure poem poet poetical poetry poor praise prayer published racter rich Robert Pollok scene Shakspeare Sir Walter Scott smile song sorrow soul spirit stranger's heart style sublime sweet taste tears thee thine thing thou thought tion truth University of Edinburgh verse voice volumes wonder words writings young youth
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Страница 99 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Страница 143 - Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.
Страница 123 - Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death...
Страница 430 - THE world is too much with us: late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.
Страница 541 - Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.
Страница 127 - SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Страница 124 - There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush!
Страница 82 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket...
Страница 220 - Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!
Страница 430 - MILTON ! thou should'st be living at this hour : England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.