The Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, Volume 16 (Google eBook)

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Leavitt, Trow, & Company, 1849
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Page 204 - But in these cases We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips.
Page 212 - Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Doct. Do you mark that? Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.
Page 510 - And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.
Page 210 - Who was it that thus cried ? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things. Go, get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Page 147 - A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no identity ; he is continually in for, and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, and men and women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute ; the poet has none, no identity. He is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's creatures.
Page 17 - Goldsmith's plain narrative will please again and again. I would say to Robertson what an old tutor of a college said to one of his pupils : ' Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.
Page 147 - I am a member ; that sort distinguished from the Wordsworthian, or egotistical Sublime ; which is a thing per se, and stands alone), it is not itself it has no self- -It is every thing and nothing It has no character...
Page 207 - Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee ; Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Page 152 - That it is so is no fault of mine. No ! though it may sound a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had power to make it by myself Had I been nervous...
Page 213 - She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.

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