A Concord of Sweet Notes

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J.S. Hyland, 1908 - American poetry - 159 pages
 

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Page 21 - Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares—- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
Page 21 - Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at every line ; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit, One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art.
Page 18 - The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted.
Page 25 - OF all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well...
Page 20 - Poetry is itself a thing of God ; He made His prophets poets ; and the more We feel of poesie do we become Like God in love and power, — under-makers.
Page 24 - Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Had in him those brave translunary things That the first poets had ; his raptures were All air and fire, which made his verses clear ; For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.
Page 25 - While sparkling cups delight our eyes, Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age. What cruel answer have I heard ! And yet, by heaven, I love thee still: Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? Yet say, how fell that bitter word From lips which streams of sweetness fill, Which...
Page 22 - Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine: Tho' still some traces of our rustic vein And splay-foot verse remain'd, and will remain.
Page 23 - Muse employ'd her heaven-taught lyre None but the noblest passions to inspire, Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, One line, which dying he could wish to blot.
Page 23 - Whose scoundrel fathers would not know 'em, If they should meet them in a poem. True poets can depress and raise, Are lords of infamy and praise; They are not scurrilous in satire, Nor will in panegyric flatter. Unjustly poets we asperse; Truth shines the brighter clad in verse, And all the fictions they pursue Do but insinuate what is true.

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