The New Monthly Magazine, Том 9

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E. Littell, 1825

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Стр. 429 - O good old man ; how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat, but for promotion; And having that, do choke their service up Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
Стр. 50 - Piety displays Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores New manners, and the pomp of elder days, Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.
Стр. 136 - DUKE'S PALACE. [Enter DUKE, CURIO, LORDS; MUSICIANS attending.] DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.— That strain again;— it had a dying fall; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.— Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Стр. 136 - O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o...
Стр. 267 - Sueil has bound ! Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good, For all his lordship knows, — but they are wood! For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look ; These shelves admit not any modern book.
Стр. 492 - Where London's column, pointing to the skies Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies.
Стр. 71 - Thy silver hairs I see, So still, so sadly bright ! And father, father ! but for me, They had not been so white ! I bore thee down, high heart ! at last. No longer couldst thou strive ; — Oh, for one moment of the past, To kneel and say —
Стр. 73 - Sol, and dissolved pearl (Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy), And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, Headed with diamond and carbuncle. My footboy shall eat pheasants...
Стр. 488 - AH ! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ; Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war...
Стр. 71 - Oh, father ! is it vain, This late remorse and deep ? Speak to me, father ! once again, I weep — behold, I weep ! Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! Were but this work undone, I would give England's crown, my sire ! To hear thee bless thy son.

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