The Spirit of the Age, Or, Contemporary Portraits, 1. kötetH. Colburn, 1825 - 408 oldal |
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1 - 5 találat összesen 15 találatból.
57. oldal
... hope is there of this ? We are like those who have been to see some noble monument of art , who are content to admire without thinking of rivalling it ; or like guests after a feast , who praise the hospitality of the donor " and thank ...
... hope is there of this ? We are like those who have been to see some noble monument of art , who are content to admire without thinking of rivalling it ; or like guests after a feast , who praise the hospitality of the donor " and thank ...
67. oldal
... - What is become of all this mighty heap of hope , of thought , of learning , and humanity ? It has ended in swal- lowing doses of oblivion and in writing paragraphs in the Courier . - Such and so little is MR . COLERIDGE . 67.
... - What is become of all this mighty heap of hope , of thought , of learning , and humanity ? It has ended in swal- lowing doses of oblivion and in writing paragraphs in the Courier . - Such and so little is MR . COLERIDGE . 67.
90. oldal
... hope , or doing any thing more than " hitting the house between wind and water . " Yet he is probably a cleverer man than Mr. Irving . There is a Mr. Fox , a Dissenting Minister , as fluent a speaker , with a sweeter voice and a more ...
... hope , or doing any thing more than " hitting the house between wind and water . " Yet he is probably a cleverer man than Mr. Irving . There is a Mr. Fox , a Dissenting Minister , as fluent a speaker , with a sweeter voice and a more ...
171. oldal
... hope and sadness that still played upon his quivering lip . Mr. Southey's mind is essentially sanguine , even to over - weening- ness . It is prophetic of good ; it cordially embraces it ; it casts a longing , lingering look after it ...
... hope and sadness that still played upon his quivering lip . Mr. Southey's mind is essentially sanguine , even to over - weening- ness . It is prophetic of good ; it cordially embraces it ; it casts a longing , lingering look after it ...
172. oldal
... hope , this faith in man left , he cherished it with child - like simplicity , he clung to it with the fondness of a lover , he was an enthusiast , a fanatic , a leveller ; he stuck at nothing that he thought would banish all pain and ...
... hope , this faith in man left , he cherished it with child - like simplicity , he clung to it with the fondness of a lover , he was an enthusiast , a fanatic , a leveller ; he stuck at nothing that he thought would banish all pain and ...
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admiration affectation argument beauty Bentham breath Caleb Williams candour character Cobbett Coleridge common common-place critic delight Edinburgh Review eloquence equally fancy feelings flowers French Revolution friends genius give Godwin grace ground habit hand heart Heaven honour House human idle imagination intellect Irving JEREMY BENTHAM less liberty light live look Lord Byron LORD ELDON Lyrical Ballads Malthus manner means ment mind modern moral Muse nature ness never object opinion pain passion perhaps person philosopher poem poet poetical poetry political popular prejudices pretensions pride principle quaint question racter reader reason Review Scotch sense sentiment servility Sir Francis Burdett Sir James Mackintosh Sir Walter Sir Walter Scott sort Southey speak spirit spleen striking style talent taste thing thought tion tone Tooke truth turn vanity verse virtue Whig wild word writings
Népszerű szakaszok
339. oldal - Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few, shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
143. oldal - Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
58. oldal - That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct As water is in water.
374. oldal - High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted.
238. oldal - Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide : No uttered syllable, or, woe betide...
338. oldal - ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
70. oldal - Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene ! Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity ! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.
358. oldal - Now upon Syria's land of roses Softly the light of eve reposes, And like a glory the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon, Whose head in wintry grandeur towers And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer in a vale of flowers Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
238. oldal - Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
145. oldal - Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?