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Стр. 308 - Old man! there is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast, Nor agony— nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep Despair, Which is Remorse without the fear of Hell, But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of Heaven— can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense Of its own sins— wrongs— sufferance— and revenge Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self-condemned...
Стр. 296 - Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess; The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears.
Стр. 305 - Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again; Would that breast by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show!
Стр. 272 - Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.
Стр. 271 - Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng : Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, timedefying, centuries old ; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in, their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.
Стр. 309 - This should have been a noble creature : he Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements, Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, Mix'd, and contending without end or order, All dormant or destructive...
Стр. 305 - Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?
Стр. 307 - Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; There are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts thou canst not banish...
Стр. 17 - Flow through our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquered years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow...
Стр. 66 - Garrick is to be with you early the next week, and Mr. Johnson to try his fate with a tragedy, and to see to get himself employed in some translation, either from the Latin or the French. Johnson is a very good scholar and poet, and I have great hopes will turn out a fine tragedy-writer. If it should any way lie in your way, doubt not but you would be ready to recommend and assist your countryman. "G. WALMSLEY.