The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope, Band 2

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W. Pickering, 1851
 

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Seite 152 - The world recedes ; it disappears ! Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring ! Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O grave, where is thy victory ? O death, where is thy sting...
Seite 82 - The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill ; Where only merit constant pay receives, Is...
Seite 85 - What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue.
Seite 17 - Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow : Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Seite 6 - First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear...
Seite 12 - Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise, New distant scenes of endless science rise!
Seite 39 - Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way...
Seite 36 - Say first, of God above or man below What can we reason but from what we know ? Of man what see we but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer ? Through worlds unnumber'd though the God be known, Tis ours to trace him only in our own.
Seite 46 - Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Seite 17 - The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep'. Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

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