Belgravia: A London Magazine, Volume 22

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Chatto and Windus, 1874
 

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Página 4 - In thoughts from the visions of the night, When deep sleep falleth on men, Fear came upon me, and trembling, Which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face; The hair of my flesh stood up.
Página 389 - Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave. — Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
Página 299 - I have just cause to make a pitiful defence of poor Poetry, which from almost the highest estimation of learning is fallen to be the laughing-stock of children...
Página 160 - She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue. Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue: Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd: And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or interwreathed Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries.
Página 15 - Tis the little Celandine. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout!
Página 381 - I fear, too early : for my mind misgives, Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels...
Página 396 - Twas one of the charmed days When the genius of God doth flow, The wind may alter twenty ways, A tempest cannot blow: It may blow north, it still is warm; Or south, it still is clear; Or east, it smells like a clover farm; Or west, no thunder fear.
Página 342 - Mr. nabs the chance of putting his customers awake, that he has just made his escape from Russia, not forgetting to clap his mawleys upon some of the right sort of Ducks, to make single and...
Página 471 - It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know it has begun. A thousand heralds proclaim it to the listening air, a thousand messengers betray it to the eye. Tone, act, attitude and look, the signals upon the countenance, the electric telegraph of touch, — all these betray the yielding citadel before the word itself is uttered, which, like the key surrendered, opens every avenue and gate of entrance, and renders retreat impossible.
Página 469 - Sad, solemne, sowre, and full of fancies fraile, She woxe ; yet wist she nether how, nor why ; She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile, Yet wist she was not well at ease perdy; Yet thought it was not love, but some melancholy.

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