The Spirit of the Age: Or, Contemporary Portraits ...

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Henry Colburn, 1902 - 424 Seiten
 

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Seite 153 - Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Seite 193 - ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Seite 62 - That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct As water is in water.
Seite 75 - Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene ! Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity ! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.
Seite 156 - Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
Seite 29 - No work in our time gave such a blow to the philosophical mind of the country as the celebrated Enquiry concerning) Political Justice Tom Paine was considered for the time as a Tom Fool to him ; Paley an old woman ; Edmund Burke a flashy sophist.
Seite 75 - SCHILLER ! that hour I would have wished to die, If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry — Lest in some after moment aught more mean Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene...
Seite 204 - How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked race; Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye; What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come, And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home, Gave from the salt-ditch side the bellowing boom.
Seite 194 - Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few, shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Seite 218 - ... tooth: and though I wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed in my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct: not but that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent and propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find any which they thought would wear the face of probability.

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