Eclectic Magazine: Foreign Literature, Volume 14John Holmes Agnew, Walter Hilliard Bidwell Leavitt, Throw and Company, 1848 |
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Eclectic Magazine: Foreign Literature, Volume 40 John Holmes Agnew,Walter Hilliard Bidwell Visualização completa - 1857 |
Eclectic Magazine: Foreign Literature, Volume 18;Volume 81 John Holmes Agnew,Walter Hilliard Bidwell,Henry T. Steele Visualização completa - 1873 |
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admiration ancient appeared beautiful called Chalmers character Charles Martel Church Coleridge court daugh death earth England English eyes father favor feeling feet France French genius German give Goethe Guizot hand happy head heart heaven honor Horace Walpole human interest King labor Lady Lamartine land less letter literary literature living look Lord Hervey Louis Blanc Louis Philippe manner Masaniello ment miles mind minister moral mountains Naples nation nature ness never night Odilon Barrot Paris passed passion Periander Persian person philosophy Plato poet political poor present Prince Prince Metternich Protagoras Queen racter readers revolution Roman Saint-Simon Saint-Simonian seems sion Sledy Socrates songs soul Southey speak spirit things thou thought tion true truth utterance whole words writing young youth
Passagens mais conhecidas
Página 413 - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu...
Página 412 - Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
Página 520 - My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy : how dost, my boy ? art cold ? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow ? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee.
Página 413 - Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Página 412 - Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seem'da splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven : Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Página 396 - If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.— That strain again;— it had a dying fall; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.— Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Página 412 - Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Página 409 - Homer ruled as his demesne ; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Página 521 - Lear. Be your tears wet ? yes, faith. I pray, weep not : If you have poison for me I will drink it. I know you do not love me ; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong : You have some cause, they have not. Cor. No cause, no cause.
Página 105 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.