Miscellanies: The curse of Minerva. The Waltz. Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte. Hebrew melodies. The Morgante Maggiore of Pulci. The prophecy of Dante. The blues, a literary eclogue. The vision of judgment. The age of bronze
J. Murray, 1837
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abbot angels answer'd Asmodeus aught avea badia beauty behold blue Bluem canto Carlo Charlemagne Cortana damn'd Dante dark dead death devil divine earth eternal evil fame fatto feel Florence Ganellon gate giant glory gran hand hast hath head hear heard heart heaven hell holy honour Italian language John Horne Tooke King l'abate Lady Blueb Leigh Hunt less live look'd Lord Byron Michael mind molto monarch Morgante Morgante Maggiore morto ne'er never o'er ogni once Orlando Passamont Petrarch poem poet poetry Pulci Ravenna reader reign renegado rhyme Rispose Saint Peter Satan Satanic school Scamp seem'd sempre Signor song Sotheby soul Southey Southey's spirit stanzas stood sword thee thine thing thou thought throne tomb turn'd verse Vision of Judgment voice Waltz Wat Tyler written
Seite 75 - 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 withered and strown.
Seite 54 - And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent ! THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.
Seite 53 - 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 mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Seite 61 - ... roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread: Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Seite 5 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Seite 75 - And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord...
Seite 48 - Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state ? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best— The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but One !
Seite 225 - The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two, Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, Splitting some planet with its playful tail, As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.
Seite 69 - O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deem'd divine — Jehovah's vessels hold The godless heathen's wine. In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand : The fingers of a man ; — A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand.