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appeared beauty Ben Jonson Bishop blank verse born called century character Chaucer comedy composition contemporaries death died dramatic dramatists Dryden edition eloquence eminent England English English language entitled Euphuism expression fancy French genius Gorboduc grace greatest havo heart humour imagination imitation kind King language Latin latter Layamon learned least literary literature lived Lord manner Milton mind Mirror for Magistrates modern native nature nearly never original Ormulum Paradise Lost passages passion perhaps pieces Piers Ploughman play poem poet poetical poetry Pope popular principle printed probably produced prose published Ralph Roister Doister readers reign remarkable rhyme Robert of Gloucester romance satire scarcely Scotland Scottish Shakespeare song Spenser spirit style sweet Tale thee things tho language thou thought tion tongue tragedy translation truth Tyrwhitt volume Warton words writer written
Page 499 - What thou art we know not: What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...
Page 436 - I would not trust my heart ; — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might — But no : — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Page 503 - Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
Page 503 - Fade, far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
Page 504 - Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: — do I wake or sleep?
Page 436 - Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; — So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
Page 499 - Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
Page 434 - With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
Page 314 - I am now indebted, as being a work not to be raised from the heat of youth or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amorist or the trencher fury of a rhyming parasite, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame Memory and her siren daughters, but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and...