Art, Literature, and the Drama, Τόμος 3

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Roberts brothers, 1875 - 449 σελίδες
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Σελίδα 81 - Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
Σελίδα 103 - The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man — like flowers.
Σελίδα 85 - The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a Tropic sky, Might well be dangerous food For him, a Youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of Heaven, And such impetuous blood.
Σελίδα 255 - Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And...
Σελίδα 81 - Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.
Σελίδα 33 - Veritate, in my hand, and, kneeling on my knees, devoutly said these words: — ' ' O thou eternal God, Author of the light which now shines upon me, and Giver of all inward illuminations, I do beseech Thee, of Thy infinite goodness, to pardon a greater request than a sinner ought to make ; I am not satisfied enough whether I shall publish this book, De Veritate; if it be for Thy glory, I beseech Thee give me some sign from heaven ; if not, I shall suppress it.
Σελίδα 335 - Walked of yore the Master-Singers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.
Σελίδα 97 - All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye...
Σελίδα 83 - Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear: If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Σελίδα 167 - ... service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! TO BR HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST.

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