Victorian Poets (Google eBook)

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Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1901 - Literary Criticism - 521 pages
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Page 227 - Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms. And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Page 328 - Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!
Page 94 - Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and...
Page 260 - I knew a very wise man so much of Sir Chr 's sentiment, that he believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.
Page 332 - If you choose to play ! is my principle. Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin : And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.
Page 323 - More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you - oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Page 329 - Hobbs hints blue, straight he turtle eats : Nobbs prints blue, claret crowns his cup : Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, Both gorge. Who fished the murex up ? What porridge had John Keats...
Page 110 - I love (oh! how I love) to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great Sea more and more...
Page 194 - The remotest discoveries of the chemist, the botanist, or mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of these respective sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings.
Page 215 - We will return no more ;' And all at once they sang, ' Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.