A History of Eighteenth Century Literature (1660-1780)

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Macmillan, 1896 - Всего страниц: 415
 

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Стр. 125 - In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares morality expires. For public flame, nor private, dares to shine ; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine ! Lo ! thy dread empire, Chaos ! is restor'd ; Light dies before thy uncreating word ; Thy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.
Стр. 233 - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Стр. 290 - The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it ; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.
Стр. 294 - The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by: His frame was firm — his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.
Стр. 340 - Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't • As he comes up the stair, — And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi...
Стр. 17 - In thy felonious heart tho' venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land. There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. Or, if thou wouldst thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
Стр. 289 - Seven years, My Lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms or was repulsed from your door, during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before.
Стр. 114 - And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil ; This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box ; The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white.
Стр. 322 - Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Стр. 188 - To Dr. Jonathan Swift, the most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and the greatest genius of his age.

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