The Cornhill Magazine

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William Makepeace Thackeray
Smith, Elder, 1908 - England
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Page 413 - Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate...
Page 394 - Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character; when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done.
Page 300 - Nothing can cover his high fame, but Heaven ; No pyramids set off his memories, But the eternal substance of his greatness ; To which I leave him.
Page 402 - Germany from the end of the fourteenth century to the beginning of the seventeenth...
Page 439 - Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him.
Page 413 - Soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda.
Page 167 - He cheer'd the dogs to follow her who fled, And vow'd revenge on her devoted head. As Theodore was born of noble kind, The brutal action...
Page 50 - Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare...
Page 364 - Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished ; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts...
Page 136 - To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall ; No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear ; No hammers thump ; no horrid blacksmith sear ; Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, With sounds that are a misery to hear : But all is calm, as would delight the heart Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art.

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