Outlines of English Literature

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Blanchard & Lea, 1856 - 465 Seiten

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Seite 284 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berccau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains.
Seite 155 - Or th' unseen genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows, richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
Seite 230 - I cannot but conclude the bulk of your natives, to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth.
Seite 240 - Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.
Seite 214 - As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night ! O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole, O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head ; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,...
Seite 166 - Homer, and those other two of Virgil and Tasso, are a diffuse, and the book of Job a brief model: or whether the rules of Aristotle herein are strictly to be kept, or nature to be...
Seite 213 - which you did me the honour to subscribe for.' — 'Oh,' said Bentley, 'ay, now I recollect — your translation: — it is a pretty poem, Mr. Pope; but you must not call it Homer?
Seite 113 - Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vex'd and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians.
Seite 121 - You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry 'Hold, hold!
Seite 210 - Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes : (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view :) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.

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