Artist-life: Or, Sketches of American Painters

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D. Appleton, 1847 - Art - 237 pages
 

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Page 145 - I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears. •The monarch mind — the mystery of commanding, The godlike power, the art Napoleon, Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding The hearts of millions till they move as one ; Thou hast it.
Page 168 - ... crook the pregnant hinges of the knee that thrift may follow fawning.
Page 154 - Th' expedients and inventions, multiform, To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win — T' arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit till he has...
Page 237 - ... and transparency of the air soon told me I was arrived in happier climates ; and I felt sensations of joy and novelty run through my veins, upon beholding this smiling land of groves and verdure stretched out before me. A few...
Page 136 - Active, and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse, — a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; But God alone, when first His active hand Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
Page 146 - With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair?
Page 147 - And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear.
Page 89 - THE quiet August noon has come ; A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long.
Page 137 - O'er the fair fraud so close a veil is thrown, That every borrow'd grace becomes his own.
Page 89 - But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose.

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