Novels, Volume 4

Capa
J. M. Dent, 1894

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Página 229 - O! how canst thou renounce the boundless store -. . , • . Of charms, which Nature to her vot'ries yields; The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even...
Página 34 - Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close ; where past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; The parted wave no furrow from the keel; So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Página 326 - Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day, Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou — and from thy sleep Then wake to weep.
Página 60 - Discourse may want an animated — No — To brush the surface and to make it flow ; But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
Página 105 - My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on ; Judge not the play before the play Is done ; Her plot has many changes ; every day Speaks a new scene : the last act crowns the play.
Página 139 - Twas his own voice — she could not err — Throughout the breathing world's extent There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel's lay Open her bosom's glowing veil, * Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one...
Página 60 - J'entre en une humeur noire, en un chagrin profond, Quand je vois vivre entre eux les hommes comme ils font; Je ne trouve partout que lâche flatterie, Qu'injustice, intérêt, trahison, fourberie; Je n'y puis plus tenir, j'enrage, et mon dessein Est de rompre en visière à tout le genre humain.
Página 101 - O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun. And by-and-by a cloud takes all away ! Re-enter PANTHINO.
Página 148 - Ah ! sure, as Hindu legends tell, When music's tones the bosom swell, The scenes of former life return ; Ere, sunk beneath the morning star, We left our parent climes afar, Immured in mortal forms to mourn. Or if, as ancient sages ween. Departed spirits, half unseen, Can mingle with the mortal throng ; 'Tis when from heart to heart we roll The deep-toned music of the soul, That warbles in our Scottish song.
Página 353 - ... very humane and learned, but enthusiastic writer. It is an attempt to save the credit of human nature. Without seeking to enter into the dread question of moral responsibility, we may in some degree extenuate, without excusing, the crimes of the persecutors, by ascribing them to virtual insanity. In considering the actions of the mind, it should never be forgotten, that its affections pass into each other like the tints of the rainbow : though we can easily distinguish them when they have assumed...

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