The works of Edgar Allan Poe [with a mem. by R.W. Griswold].

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Another "Adventures of" nouvella on a Dutch man who travels to the moon by way of an air balloon while he maintains airf inside a car-cab he bought. not only did EAP ignore the science in this tale ... Читать весь отзыв

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Стр. 23 - cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the
Стр. xxii - 1 Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest,— Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her
Стр. 240 - Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle • Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime— Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle Now melt into softness, now madden to crime > Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine,
Стр. 33 - TO ONE IN PARADISE. THOU wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine—• A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope ! that didst
Стр. xix - Oh! what was love made for, if't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame \ I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll
Стр. 47 - song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour of thy lute — Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this Is a world of sweets and
Стр. vii - rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas 1 My heart beats loud and fast: Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last 1 Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines—yet no
Стр. vi - 1 The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream:— The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, 0, beloved as thou art! 0, lift me from the grass 1
Стр. 3 - Though the rock of my last hope is shivered. And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain—it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn— They may torture, but shall not subdue me—
Стр. 22 - Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere— As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried—" It was surely October On this very night of last year That

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