The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, Volume 80

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Archibald Constable and Company, 1817 - English literature
 

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Page 439 - A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
Page 361 - Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Page 247 - Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity ! 0 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer....
Page 247 - Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! Green. Vales and icy Cliffs, all join my Hymn.
Page 247 - Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again...
Page 247 - A green and silent spot, amid the hills, A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, All golden with the never-bloomless furze, Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell, Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
Page 358 - Their own dire agents, and constrain the good To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail This triumph, yet the pity of my heart Prevents me not from owning that the law By which mankind now suffers, is most just. For by superior energies, more strict Affiance in each other, faith more firm In their unhallowed principles, the bad Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, The vacillating, inconsistent good.
Page 248 - And now beloved Stowey ! I behold Thy church-tower, and methinks, the four huge elms Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend; And close behind them, hidden from my view, Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe And my babe's mother, dwell in peace...
Page 437 - J'ai conçu pour mon crime une juste terreur. J'ai pris la vie en haine, et ma flamme en horreur. Je voulais en mourant prendre soin de ma gloire, Et dérober au jour une flamme si noire.
Page 358 - Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring...

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