The Life and Letters of Washington AllstonC. Scribner's Sons, 1892 - Всего страниц: 435 |
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acquainted admiration America angel artist beautiful believe Belshazzar Belshazzar's Feast called CAMBRIDGEPORT canvas character Charleston Coleridge color DEAR COGDELL DEAR SIR death delight doubt effect England excellence exhibition expression fame feel felt figure finished gallery genius give glazing Greenough hand head heart Henry Reed honor hope HORATIO GREENOUGH imagination impasto interest Italy Jacob's Dream kind labor Leonard Jarvis Leslie letter light lived London look Michael Angelo mind mother nature never old masters painted painter Paul Veronese pict pleasure poetic portrait praise present R. H. Dana Raphael received regret remember S. T. Coleridge scene sculptor seemed seen shadows sincere Sir Joshua sketch speak spirit suppose taste tell thing thought tints tion Titian told truth Verplanck WASHINGTON ALLSTON WILLIAM DRAYTON William Ellery Channing wish words write young
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Стр. 132 - And tempting Fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend ! — Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; But, rooted here, I stand and gaze On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise Their practicable way. Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound...
Стр. 386 - Which no tyranny can tame By its chains? While the language free and bold Which the Bard of Avon sung, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; — While this, with reverence meet, Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast; — While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, — Between let Ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : Yet still from either beach...
Стр. 385 - O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore! For thou with magic might Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er! The genius of our clime From his pine-embattled steep Shall hail the guest sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.
Стр. 395 - I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground, He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief Whisk away from his sight with a bound. "I am lost!
Стр. 132 - To stop, no record hath told where ! And tempting fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend ! Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; But, rooted here, I stand and gaze On those bright steps that heavenward raise Their practicable way.
Стр. 69 - We had delightful rambles together about Rome and its environs, one of which came near changing my whole course of life. We had been visiting a stately villa, with its gallery of paintings, its marble halls, its terraced gardens set out with statues and fountains, and were returning to Rome about sunset. The blandness of the air, the serenity of the sky, the transparent purity of the atmosphere, and that nameless charm which hangs about an Italian landscape...
Стр. 392 - Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while), " This picture, I see, you admire : Then take it, I pray you ; perhaps 'twill beguile Some moments of sorrow (nay, pardon my smile), Or, at least, keep you home by the fire.
Стр. 385 - Though ages long have passed Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam,— Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame By its chains ? Modern Poets.
Стр. 384 - That makes my heart to overflow. As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light — if light it be — That veils the world I see. For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres ; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O nothing, sure, the stars beneath, Can mould a sadness like to this — So like angelic bliss.
Стр. 55 - Miracle of the Slave,' and the ' Marriage of Cana,' I thought of nothing but of the gorgeous concert of colors, or rather of the indefinite forms (I cannot call them sensations) of pleasure with which they filled the imagination. It was the poetry of color which I felt; procreative in its nature, giving birth to a thousand things which the eye cannot see, and distinct from their cause.