The Masters of English Literature

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Macmillan, 1904 - 423 Seiten
 

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Seite 179 - Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne...
Seite 143 - Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure; Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain! Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again : And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
Seite 270 - Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;
Seite 330 - Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration ; — feelings too...
Seite 179 - Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike...
Seite 330 - But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind. With tranquil restoration...
Seite 367 - That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality...
Seite 241 - Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind : His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand : His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart...
Seite 133 - For his religion, it was fit To match his learning and his wit : 'Twas Presbyterian true blue, For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant ; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun ; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery ; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks...
Seite 347 - It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

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