Отзывы - Написать отзыв
Не удалось найти ни одного отзыва.
Другие издания - Просмотреть все
Recollections of a Literary Life: Or Books, Places and People
Mary Russell Mitford
Полный просмотр - 1858
Recollections of a literary life: or, Books, places and people
Mary Russell Mitford
Полный просмотр - 1852
Recollections of a Literary Life: Or, Books, Places, and People
Mary Russell Mitford
Полный просмотр - 1862
admirable ballads beauty Ben Jonson bird Bonny Dundee Bradshaigh bright brother called charming dear death delight doth English EURIPIDES eyes fair father fear feeling flowers Gelert gentleman Gerald Griffin give Goodere grace hand happy hath hear heard heart heaven Hepzibah honor horse Joanna Baillie John Banim kind King Klopstock knew Kyng lady laughed letters light live look Lord Mahony maid mignonette morning murder never night noble o'er once Pan is dead passed person pleasure poems poet poetry poor praise round SACK OF BALTIMORE scene seemed sing smile Soggarth song spirit story sweet tears tell thee There's thing Thomas Holcroft thou thought Thrasymedes took trees truth Twas Ufton Court verse walk wild Winthrop Mackworth Praed wirra-sthru wonder words write wyfe XANTHIAS young youth
Стр. 546 - I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragon's teeth ; and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.
Стр. 545 - STUDIES serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one ; but the general counsels, and the plots, and marshalling of affairs come best from those that are learned.
Стр. 201 - Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.
Стр. 318 - Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
Стр. 314 - Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
Стр. 318 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild...
Стр. 242 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
Стр. 180 - I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ;
Стр. 394 - Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Стр. 431 - ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, •** Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower.