MacMillan's Magazine, Volume 25 (Google eBook)

Front Cover
Sir George Grove, David Masson, John Morley, Mowbray Morris
1872
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Page 271 - O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear ; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low : Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love ? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me...
Page 337 - Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves. And the mome raths outgrabe.
Page 269 - Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.
Page 338 - Long time the manxome foe he sought — So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack ! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Page 176 - Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze, Upon her so to gaze, Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring? But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright...
Page 176 - There dwells sweet love and constant chastity, Unspotted faith and comely womanhood, Regard of honour and mild modesty; There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, And giveth laws alone, The which the base affections do obey, And yield their services unto her will; Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.
Page 390 - A l'âge où l'on est libertin, Pour boire un toast en un festin, Un jour je soulevai mon verre. En face de moi vint s'asseoir Un convive vêtu de noir, Qui me ressemblait comme un frère. Il secouait sous son manteau Un haillon de pourpre en lambeau, Sur sa tête un myrte stérile, Son bras maigre cherchait le mien.
Page 152 - sa background of god to each hardworking feature, Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest...
Page 390 - Pensif, avec un doux sourire. Comme j'allais avoir quinze ans, Je marchais un jour, à pas lents, Dans un bois, sur une bruyère. Au pied d'un arbre vint s'asseoir Un jeune homme vêtu de noir, Qui me ressemblait comme un frère. Je lui demandai mon chemin; II tenait un luth d'une main, De l'autre un bouquet d'églantine. Il me fit un salut d'ami, Et, se détournant à demi, Me montra du doigt la colline.
Page 269 - No, sir ; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.

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