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Seite 546 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Seite 165 - at the Mount of St Mary's, in the stony stage where I now stand, I have brought you some fine biscuits, baked in the oven of charity, carefully conserved for the chickens of the church, the sparrows of the spirit, and the sweet swallows of salvation.
Seite 545 - Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind...
Seite 214 - It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda ; " or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.
Seite 214 - I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page ; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all...
Seite 214 - Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens, — there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel reader — I seldom look into novels — Do not imagine that / often read novels. It is really very well for a novel.
Seite 545 - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Seite 545 - Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel...
Seite 622 - Tout est bien aujourd'hui, voilà l'illusion. Les sages me trompaient, et Dieu seul a raison. Humble dans mes soupirs, soumis dans ma souffrance. Je ne m'élève point contre la Providence.
Seite 622 - Ou l'homme est né coupable, et Dieu punit sa race, Ou ce maître absolu de l'être et de l'espace, Sans courroux, sans pitié, tranquille, indifférent, De ses premiers décrets suit l'éternel torrent ; Ou la matière informe, à son maître rebelle, Porte en soi des défauts nécessaires comme elle ; Ou bien Dieu nous éprouve, et ce séjour mortel * N'est qu'un passage étroit vers un inonde éternel.