Essays and Criticisms

الغلاف الأمامي
Reeves & Turner, 1880 - 365 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 158 - Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
الصفحة 175 - And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.
الصفحة 175 - The blisses of her dream so pure and deep At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. xxxv "Ah, Porphyro!
الصفحة 229 - Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel The link of nature draw me ; flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
الصفحة 328 - He was too much of the boyman. The toga virilis never sate gracefully on his shoulders. The impressions of infancy had burnt into him, and he resented the impertinence of manhood.
الصفحة 175 - twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : It...
الصفحة 325 - If it be egotism to imply and twine with his own identity the griefs and affections of another — making himself many, or reducing many unto himself — then is the skilful novelist, who all along brings in his hero or heroine, speaking of themselves, the greatest egotist of all ; who yet has never, therefore, been accused of that narrowness.
الصفحة 209 - And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art ; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine ; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A MICHAEL'S grandeur, and a RAPHAEL'S grace ! Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, And my low roof the Vatican recalls...
الصفحة 115 - Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. Fear not the anger of the wise to raise : Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.
الصفحة 175 - but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.

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