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admiration Alph Anto Antonio artist beauty Beethoven beneath better brother calm character Charles Wesley charm clavichord critic deep delight divine drama earth expression eyes fair faith fancy feel felt flowers fugue genius gifts give Goethe grace Handel happy harmony harpsichord hast Haydn hear heart heaven honour hope hour human John Sebastian Leon Leonora less light live look Lord Madame de Stael melody mind misanthropy Mozart muse nature never noble o'er Paracelsus passion perfect Philip Van Artevelde picture play pleasure poems poet poetic poetry present prince princess rich Scene seek seems Senesino Sir James Mackintosh song soul speak spirit Strafford SWEDENBORGIANISM sweet sympathy Tasso taste tender thee thine things thou art thou wilt thought tion tone true truth verse wish words Wordsworth worthy write youth
Seite 79 - What thou art we know not: What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...
Seite 78 - Joyous as morning Thou art laughing and scorning ; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth To be such a traveller as I. Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver...
Seite 95 - A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear O Lady!
Seite 96 - And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars ; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen : Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue...
Seite 83 - The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a Tropic sky, Might well be dangerous food For him, a Youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of Heaven, And such impetuous blood.
Seite 80 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Seite 96 - To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
Seite 81 - Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear: If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, • Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
Seite 82 - A love in desolation masked — a power Girt round with weakness ; it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour. It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak Is it not broken ? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek The life can burn in blood even while the heart may break.