Life of Leigh Hunt

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W. Scott, Limited, 1893 - Hunt, James Henry Leigh, 1784-1859 - 250 pages
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Biography of James Henry Leigh Hunt, (1784-1852), youngest son of Isaac Hunt and Mary Shewell, was born in Southgate, [Middlesex], England. He had 3 brothers and 2 sisters. In 1809, he married Marianne Kent (d.1855), and had 3 children, Thornton, John, and Mary. He became an editor of a periodical called the "Examier." He wrote both prose and poetry, and became a notable theatrical critic. He published "Critical Essays", and published many articles as well as poetry. He lived in Kensington and Hammersmith, and was published in London. He knew Byron, Keats and Shelley and who had great admiration for Leigh Hunt.
 

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Page 129 - To the Grasshopper and the Cricket GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass, And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass : Oh sweet and tiny cousins that belong One to the fields, the other to the hearth...
Page 84 - When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Page 86 - What person, unacquainted with the true state of the case, would imagine, in reading these astounding eulogies, that this Glory of the People was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches ! That this Protector of the Arts...
Page 129 - THE poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; That is the Grasshopper's...
Page 129 - The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

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