English bards, and Scotch reviewers: a satire |
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Стр. 28
... fair they rose , a His hopes have perished ' Nipped in the bud by ( * Mr. COTTLE , AMOS or Jo once sellers of books the do not sell , have publis Pye has been at him too ! A fred lanes Mr. MAURICE hath me rous quarto , upon the be -it ...
... fair they rose , a His hopes have perished ' Nipped in the bud by ( * Mr. COTTLE , AMOS or Jo once sellers of books the do not sell , have publis Pye has been at him too ! A fred lanes Mr. MAURICE hath me rous quarto , upon the be -it ...
Стр. 39
... fair neck and charm the listening throng ! Raise not your scythe , Suppressors of our Vice ! Reforming Saints ! too delicately nice ! - 600 610 * NALDI and CATALANI require little notice , for the visage of the one and the salary of the ...
... fair neck and charm the listening throng ! Raise not your scythe , Suppressors of our Vice ! Reforming Saints ! too delicately nice ! - 600 610 * NALDI and CATALANI require little notice , for the visage of the one and the salary of the ...
Стр. 48
... fair your handiwork peruse ; Your sonnets sure shall please - perhaps your shoes . May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill , And taylors ' lays be longer than their bill ! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes , And pay for ...
... fair your handiwork peruse ; Your sonnets sure shall please - perhaps your shoes . May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill , And taylors ' lays be longer than their bill ! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes , And pay for ...
Стр. 50
... fair Has sought the grave , to sleep for ever there . Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone , When Science'self destroyed her favourite son ! Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit , She sowed the seeds , but death has reaped ...
... fair Has sought the grave , to sleep for ever there . Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone , When Science'self destroyed her favourite son ! Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit , She sowed the seeds , but death has reaped ...
Стр. 58
... fair Isis rolls her purer wave , The partial Muse delighted loves to lave , On her green banks a greener wreath is wove , To crown the Bards that haunt her classic grove , Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires , And modern Britons ...
... fair Isis rolls her purer wave , The partial Muse delighted loves to lave , On her green banks a greener wreath is wove , To crown the Bards that haunt her classic grove , Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires , And modern Britons ...
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ARTHUR'S seat Bard beauties Behold blest boast BOWLES BOWLES's Caledonia's CAMOENS CAPEL LOFFT CARLISLE CATULLUS Condemned COTTLE Critics daily prints damned dare display dull Dunciad E'en Edinburgh Review ENGLISH BARDS Epic fame feel follies fools genius GIFFORD HAFIZ hail HALLAM hallowed hath heroes HOLLAND's honour hope inspiration JEFFREY JEFFREY'S Joan of Arc Juvenal labour LAMB LITTLE'S Lord Lord CARLISLE Lord Fanny Lordship lyre Lyrical Ballads mighty mind Minstrel Muse night numbers o'er once perchance pistol Pixies poem Poesy Poet's poetry POPE praise Prince prose published resign rhyme Satire Satirist scenes SCOTCH REVIEWERS scrawl scribbler SKEFFINGTON sleep Sleeping Beauties song Sonnets sons soul SOUTHEY SOUTHEY's spare Spirit spurn Stanza STOTT strain STRANGFORD taste Thalaba themes thine thing thou throng thy muse thy pen Tolbooth traduce Triumphs Tweed verse William of Deloraine worthy write yield
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Стр. 51 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel „ While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Стр. 1 - Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers ; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd, Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree ; And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry : 'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag.
Стр. 50 - Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret, that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
Стр. 16 - Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base.
Стр. 16 - ... line ? No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : Still...
Стр. 9 - Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.
Стр. 10 - A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.
Стр. 50 - UNHAPPY White !* while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When science...
Стр. 19 - Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double : Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
Стр. 11 - twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment? no— as soon Seek roses in December— ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.