Victorian Poets, Volume 1
This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfectionssuch as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed worksworldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book.++++The below data was compiled from various identification fields in the bibliographic record of this title. This data is provided as an additional tool in helping to ensure edition identification: ++++ Amaury Alexandre Dumas Agustin Espinosa, 1844 Fiction; Classics; Fiction / Classics
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
admirable Alfred Tennyson antique Arnold artist Atalanta ballads Barry Cornwall beauty blank-verse Browning Browning's Byron career charm Chartist classical composed composition creative critical death diction dramatic early effect emotion English epic essays expression faculty fancy feeling genius gift Greek heart heroic Hood's ideal idyllic imagination influence intellect Keats Lady of Shalott Landor language later Laureate Laureate's less literary literature manner master melody method metrical minor modern nature never original Paracelsus passion Pericles period pieces Pippa Passes poem poet poet's poetic poetry Pre-Raphaelite production prose reader recent rhymes Robert Browning romance Rossetti Scholar Gipsy seems sentiment Shelley singer song sonnets Sordello soul spirit stanzas story strength style sweet Swinburne Swinburne's taste Tennyson theme Theocr Theocritus things thought tion tragedy true verse Victorian Victorian era voice volume Wordsworth write written youth
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 193 - 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 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 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 76 - For all flesh is as grass, And all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: But the word of the Lord endureth for ever. And this is the word which by the gospel is preached unto you.
Page 110 - THE SEA. The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies.
Page 362 - THE blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.
Page 214 - O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass : The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.