MacMillan's Magazine, Volume 9

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Sir George Grove, David Masson, John Morley, Mowbray Morris
1864
 

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Page 63 - Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew: Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn ; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
Page 27 - And whatsoever man there be of the house of Israel, or of the strangers that sojourn among you, that eateth any manner of blood ; I will even set my face against that soul that eateth blood, and will cut him off from among his people.
Page 118 - Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold ; Nor want we skill or art, from whence to raise Magnificence ; and what can Heaven show more?
Page 263 - But there is nothing in our laws, or in the law of nations, that forbids our citizens from sending armed vessels, as well as munitions of war, to foreign ports for sale. It is a commercial adventure which no nation is bound to prohibit, and which only exposes the persons engaged in it to the penalty of confiscation.
Page 367 - A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man: He now is first, but is he the last?
Page 367 - We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
Page 239 - Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders.
Page 239 - Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! let joy break with the storm — Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.
Page 367 - For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice.
Page 528 - The Poet is dead in me — my imagination (or rather the Somewhat that had been imaginative) lies, like a Cold Snuff on the circular Rim of a Brass Candle-stick, without even a stink of Tallow to remind you that it was once cloathed & mitred with Flame.

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