The Monthly Review

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R. Griffiths., 1820
Editors: May 1749-Sept. 1803, Ralph Griffiths; Oct. 1803-Apr. 1825, G. E. Griffiths.
 

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Стр. 194 - Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains ; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains.
Стр. 341 - Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair ; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
Стр. 343 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies...
Стр. 343 - Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor...
Стр. 343 - Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone...
Стр. 341 - She was a Goddess of the infant world; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
Стр. 342 - Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk Of Memnon's image at the set of sun To one who travels from the dusking East : Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative, He press'd together, and in silence stood.
Стр. 125 - Ferdinand' Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude.
Стр. 343 - To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer...
Стр. 95 - Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good ; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ills ; To most, he mingles both : the wretch decreed To taste the bad, unmix'd, is curst indeed ; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of Earth and Heaven.

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