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Strona 318 - As the last cloud of an expiring storm, Whose thunder is its knell ;—he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness Actaeon-like ; and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts along that rugged way Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. 1
Strona 129 - So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief, or gladness !—so it fling Forgetfulness around me ! " Childe Harold, Canto III. Stanza 4. " And if I laugh at any mortal thing, Tis that I may not weep ;—and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy
Strona 241 - I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me ;—and to me High mountains are a feeling !' " " Very possibly," replied he. " Shelley, when " I was in Switzerland, used to dose me with " Wordsworth physic even to nausea ; and I do " remember then reading some things of his " with pleasure. He had once a feeling of
Strona 319 - His head was bound with pansies overblown, And faded violets, white and pied and blue, And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone, (Round whose rough stem dark ivy tresses grew, Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew.) Vibrated as the ever beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasp'd
Strona 168 - which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a rack behind ! ' " When half seas over, Kemble used to speak " in blank-verse: and with practice, I don't think it would be difficult. Good prose
Strona 298 - The lines to which he referred were these : " Expect no heavier chastisement from me, But ever at thy season be thou free To spill their venom when thy fangs o'erflow. Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee ; Hot shame shall burn upon thy Cain-like brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt as now.
Strona 32 - and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er To w,here the last Cœsarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! The