Macmillan's Magazine, Volume 73David Masson, George Grove, John Morley, Mowbray Walter Morris Macmillan and Company, 1896 - English literature |
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Popular passages
Page 300 - Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton ; and the peculiar happiness of my life will ever consist in promoting the welfare of a people, whose loyalty and warm affection to me I consider as the greatest and most permanent security of my throne...
Page 473 - THE GLACIERS OF THE ALPS : being a Narrative of Excursions and Ascents. An Account of the Origin and Phenomena of Glaciers, and an Exposition of the Physical Principles to which they are related.
Page 440 - Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, .He has not left a wiser or better behind...
Page 308 - To try and approach truth on one side after another, not to strive or cry, nor to persist in pressing forward, on any one side, with violence and self-will...
Page 386 - Brummels, when they try to sting. An artist, Sir, should rest in Art, And waive a little of his claim; To have the deep Poetic heart Is more than all poetic fame.
Page 439 - Cripplegate mould. Coleridge is just dead, having lived just long enough to close the eyes of Wordsworth, who paid the debt to nature but a week or two before — poor Col., but two days before he died, he wrote to a bookseller proposing an epic poem on the " Wanderings of Cain,
Page 432 - I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before he was king, the image of a brave knight, perfected in the twelve private morall vertues, as Aristotle hath devised...
Page 439 - But as in my very first conception of the tale I had the whole present to my mind, with the wholeness no less than with the liveliness of a vision, I trust that I shall be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come, in the course of the present year.
Page 438 - Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow : The world may find the spring by following her, For other print her airy steps ne'er left. Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ! But like the soft west wind she shot along, And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.