The Literary History of England in the End of the Eighteenth and Beginning of the Nineteenth Century, 3. kötetMacmillan and Company, 1882 |
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admiration Allan Cunningham amusing beautiful Bentham born brilliant Byron called canto Castle Rackrent character Childe Harold contemporaries critics curious delightful died divine doubt England eyes fame father feeling Ford Abbey friends genial genius girl heart heaven hero honour human humour imagination interest Irish James Mill Jane Austen Jeremy Bentham Keats kind lady Lady Morgan Leigh Hunt less letters literary literature lived London Lord Lord Byron Mackintosh Maria Edgeworth melody mind miserable Miss Edgeworth Moore moral mystery natural never noble Northanger Abbey pain Panopticon passion perhaps philosopher pleasure poem poet poetical poetry political poor Pride and Prejudice produced published reader says scarcely scene seems sentiment Shelley Shelley's society song soul Southey spirit story strange Susan Ferrier sweet thing thought tion touch verse vulgar wild wonderful write young poet youth
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153. oldal - BRIGHT star ! would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night. And watching, with eternal lids apart. Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores...
116. oldal - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awakened from the dream of life — 'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.
136. oldal - Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise: Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
58. oldal - Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; — I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
118. oldal - We look before and after, And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
108. oldal - My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
68. oldal - The sky is changed! - and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
116. oldal - He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
266. oldal - With deep affection • And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells, "Whose sounds so wild would. In the days of childhood, . . Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On, this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee,— With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand, on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
66. oldal - Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.