The Eclectic Magazine: Foreign Literature, Volume 8

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Leavitt, Throw and Company, 1846
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Page 307 - One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; — Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. — • Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now, is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash...
Page 144 - WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life . Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we...
Page 492 - That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins...
Page 518 - Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture...
Page 95 - The intense view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another.
Page 388 - Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation.
Page 307 - Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet than all other?
Page 518 - OH, TO BE in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England - now...
Page 492 - 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 at thy side.
Page 305 - One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man and old: I led him to a lonely field; The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

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