Selected Essays, 1. kötet

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Longmans, Green, 1879
 

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284. oldal - Oh, what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame, I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart : I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
83. oldal - And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part. And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains.
278. oldal - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
106. oldal - Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses ; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the...
92. oldal - Hail, MEMORY, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway ! Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone ; The only pleasures we can call our own.
92. oldal - Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of living light ; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! from
115. oldal - Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But, oh ! she dances such a way— No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.
117. oldal - Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, — an excellent thing in woman.
99. oldal - Ward has no heart, they say ; but I deny it. He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
22. oldal - Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.

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