The Monthly Review (Google eBook)

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R. Griffiths., 1814
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Editors: May 1749-Sept. 1803, Ralph Griffiths; Oct. 1803-Apr. 1825, G. E. Griffiths.
  

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Page 190 - O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home!
Page 157 - If a man were called to fix the period in the history of the world during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus.
Page 195 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
Page 432 - But thou from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung ; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung ; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean...
Page 62 - Gul in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie...
Page 190 - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
Page 244 - While maidens laugh'd and minstrels sang, Still closer to her ear But why pursue the common tale? Or wherefore show how knights prevail When ladies dare to hear ? Or wherefore trace from what slight cause Its source one tyrant passion draws, Till, mastering all within, Where lives the man that has not tried, How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin?
Page 432 - He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; But thou must eat thy heart away ! The Roman, when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger, dared depart, In savage grandeur, home. He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom ! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandoned power.
Page 60 - My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and serais to me : Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Across the desert, or before the gale. Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou...
Page 238 - Paled in by many a lofty hill, The narrow dale lay smooth and still, And, down its verdant bosom led, A winding brooklet found its bed. But, midmost of the vale, a mound Arose, with airy turrets crown'd, Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, And mighty keep and tower ; Seem'd some primeval giant's hand The castle's massive walls had plann'd, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's. power.

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