A biographical history of English literature

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Página 485 - How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard ? when wilt thou arise out of thy sleep ? Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep. So shall thy poverty come as one that travaileth, and thy want as an armed man.
Página 127 - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
Página 237 - Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains, — alas! too few.
Página 489 - Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. '"Tell me, thou bonny bird. When shall I marry me?' 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.' '"Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' — 'The grey-headed sexton, That delves the grave duly. "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing, 'Welcome, proud lady.
Página 219 - And yet on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man, as kill a good book. Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image : but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
Página 369 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reilected from the waters, and all nature was silent.
Página 505 - O Lady! we receive but what we give And in our life alone does Nature live: Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
Página 137 - And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings...
Página 184 - Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend; This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.
Página 392 - O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest! Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

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