Essays and Reviews, Том 2

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J.R. Osgood, 1873
 

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Стр. 93 - Produce ! produce ! were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a product, produce it in God's name ! 'T is the utmost thou hast in thee ; out with it, then. Up, up ! whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might. Work, while it is called to-day, for the night cometh wherein no man can work.
Стр. 124 - Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion-kites that scream below: He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now, •Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the
Стр. 50 - Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, And his rapt ship run on her side so low, That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air. There is no danger to a man
Стр. 20 - sweetness that inspired their hearts, And minds, and muses, on admired themes ; If all the heavenly quintessence they still From their immortal flowers of poesy, Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive The highest reaches of a human wit ; If these had made one poem's period, And all combined in beauty's worthiness ¡ Yet should there hover in their
Стр. 24 - feathers, that, with a tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a. blank verse as any of you, and, being an absolute Johannes factotum, is, in his
Стр. 22 - Shylock. The character, however, has little resemblance to Shakspeare's Jew. It is Marlowe all over. In the celebrated scene where Barabbas gloats over his vast wealth, his imagination glows like his own " fiery opals." The death-scene in Edward the Second, according to Lamb, "moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or modern,
Стр. 42 - To move a horror skilfully," says Lamb, "to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till it is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its last forfeit, — this
Стр. 53 - Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings when I come but near the house: What a delicious breath marriage sends forth! The violet bed 's not sweeter. Honest wedlock Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight To cast their modest odors.
Стр. 23 - O if my soul must suffer for my sin, Impose some end to my incessant pain ! Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at the last be saved : No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast ? O Pythagoras, Metempsychosis, were that true,
Стр. 22 - will I call on him. O spare me, Lucifer ! Where is it now ? 't is gone ! And see, a threatening arm, and angry brow! Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven. No? then I will headlong run into the

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