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Seite 418 - And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent ! THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.
Seite 302 - I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing ; I would also deem O'er others...
Seite 436 - Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her ! Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
Seite 61 - Some kinder casuists are pleased to say In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way : My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Seite 310 - Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one — If my soul was not fitted to prize it...
Seite 161 - All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep...
Seite 154 - Fix'd in its own eternity. Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure : An age shall fleet like earthly year ; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.
Seite 109 - Faustus, that made me write Manfred. The first scene, however, and that of Faustus, are very similar.
Seite 387 - And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
Seite 340 - When he does talk, he talks well ; and, on all subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his poetry. If you enter his house — his drawing-room — his library — you of yourself say, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor.