New Monthly Magazine, Volume 5 (Google eBook)

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Thomas Campbell, Samuel Carter Hall, Edward Bulwer Lytton Baron Lytton, Theodore Edward Hook, Thomas Hood, William Harrison Ainsworth
Henry Colburn, 1822
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Page 137 - Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage.
Page 162 - A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
Page 38 - Lie heavy on him, earth, for he Laid many a heavy load on thee.
Page 163 - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast?
Page 434 - A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg'd like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm, o
Page 540 - She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat, like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Page 122 - The days are now long enough to walk in the Park after dinner; and so I do whenever it is fair. This walking is a strange remedy; Mr. Prior walks to make himself fat, and I to bring myself down ; he has generally a cough, which he only calls a cold : we often walk round the Park together.
Page 199 - oh ! gallant stranger, For hapless ADELGITHA'S love. " For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should 'now have set me free ; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me.
Page 251 - DE toutes les habitations où j'ai demeuré ( et jen ai eu de charmantes), aucune ne m'a rendu si véritablement heureux , et ne m'a laissé de si tendres regrets, que l'île de Saint-Pierre, au milieu du lac de Bienne.
Page 276 - Successive crys the seasons' change declare, And mark the monthly progress of the year. Hark, how the streets with treble voices ring, To sell the bounteous product of the spring!

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