The Works of the British Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Volume 12 (Google eBook)

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J. & A. Arch, 1795 - English poetry
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Page vii - Here sacred pomp and genial feast delight, And solemn dance, and hymeneal rite ; Along the street the new-made brides are led, With torches flaming, to the nuptial bed : The youthful dancers in a circle bound To the soft flute, and cittern's silver sound : Through the fair streets, the matrons in a row Stand in their porches, and enjoy the show.
Page 2 - THIS BOOK. FORMS PART OF THE ORIGINAL LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN BOUGHT IN EUROPE 1838 TO 1839 BY ASA CRAY a, >^ ^f-, LITERARY REMAINS OF TUB LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT.
Page 12 - This is a field in which no succeeding poets could dispute with Homer; and whatever commendations have been allowed them on this head, are by no means for their invention in having enlarged his circle, but for their judgment in having contracted it. For when the mode of learning changed in...
Page 18 - That the Earl of Halifax was one of the first to favour me ; of whom it is hard to say whether the advancement of the polite arts is more owing to his generosity or his example...
Page iii - Behold the mighty Hector's wife! Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame A thousand griefs shall waken at the name. May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press'd with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.
Page 14 - We ought to have a certain knowledge of the principal character and distinguishing excellence of each: it is in that we are to consider him, and in proportion to his degree in that we are to admire him. No author or man...
Page xviii - Talk not of life, or ransom (he replies): Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies: In vain a single Trojan sues for grace; But least, the sons of Priam's hateful race. Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore? The great, the good Patroclus is no more! He, far thy better, was foredoom'd to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality?

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