What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
actor admirable amid Anacreon Artevelde ascer asso Athelwold beauty beneath breast breath bright brother calm character clouds Coleridge Crabbe critic Daedalus deep divine drama earth ELENA essay ESSAY ON CRITICS expression faith fancy father feel flowers genius George H.—I give grace Hamlet happy hear heart heaven Herbert hope hour human ideal immortal intellect interest justice king LADY CARLISLE less light live look Lord Mackintosh Madame de Stael melody Metamora Milton mind misanthropy Muse nature never noble o'er passion perfect Philip Van Artevelde play poems poet poetic poetry prose pure refinement rience Roman Actor scene seems Shakspeare Shelley Sir James Sir James Mackintosh sonnets soul Southey speak spirit stars Strafford sweet thee thine things thou thought tone touch truth verse voice whole words Wordsworth write youth
Page 71 - What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee '! From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from, thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Page 35 - Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
Page 37 - I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem...
Page 70 - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
Page 73 - Midst others of less note, came one frail Form. A phantom among men; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell...
Page 87 - A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear O Lady!
Page 74 - Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart.
Page 74 - A love in desolation masked— a Power Girt round with weakness — it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour ; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak Is it not broken ? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly ; on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.
Page 88 - To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.