Biographical and Critical Miscellanies

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Harper & Brothers, 1845 - 638
 

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Strona 177 - In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.
Strona 284 - THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
Strona 54 - Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, Tunes her nocturnal note.
Strona 174 - At length he said, with perfect cheerfulness : ' Well, well, James, so be it; but you know we must not droop, for we can't afford to give over. Since one line has failed, we must stick to something else.
Strona 164 - He was makin' himsell a' the time," said Mr Shortreed; " but he didna ken maybe what he was about till years had passed : At first he thought o' little, I dare say, but the queerness and the fun.
Strona 168 - I cannot tell how the truth may be : I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
Strona 160 - Duncan, who had not patience to have a sober chat interrupted by my shouting forth this ditty. Methinks I now see his tall thin emaciated figure, his legs cased in clasped gambadoes, and his face of a length that would have rivalled the Knight of La Mancha's, and hear him exclaiming, " One may as well speak in the mouth of a cannon as where that child is.
Strona 17 - For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness ; but my imaginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions vanished, and I asked myself who it was whom I saw. Methought it could not be Catharine. It could not be the woman who had lodged for years in my...
Strona 185 - In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore ; Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.
Strona 172 - Harold, a space of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing under the shade of his laurels, no living upon the resource of past reputation ; none of that coddling and petty precaution, which little authors call " taking care of their fame." Byron let his fame take care of itself. His foot was always in the arena, his shield hung always in the lists; and although his own gigantic renown increased the difficulty of the struggle, since he could produce nothing, however great, which exceeded...

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