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Seite 57 - With regard to poetry in general, I am convinced, the more I think of it, that he and all of us — Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — are all in the wrong, one as much as another; that we are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical system, or systems, not worth a damn in itself, and from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are free; and that the present and next generations will finally be of this opinion.
Seite 280 - I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: — If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
Seite 110 - It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate To circumcise thy life. To show a heart grief-rent ; To starve thy sin, Not bin ; And that's to keep thy Lent.
Seite 397 - He was truly a spoiled child, not merely the spoiled child of his parents, but the spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of fortune, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society. His first poems were received with a contempt which, feeble as they were, they did not absolutely deserve. The poem which he published on his return from his travels, was, on the other hand, extolled far above its merits. At twenty-four, he found himself on...
Seite 31 - There is a lad here, which hath five barley loaves, and two fishes : but what are these among so many? Jesus said, Make the people sit down. Now there was much grass in the place. So the men sat down, in number about five thousand.
Seite 441 - A physician in a great city seems to be the mere plaything of fortune; his degree of reputation is, for the most part, totally casual — they that employ him know not his excellence; they that reject him know not his deficience. By any acute observer who had looked on the transactions of the medical world for half a century a very curious book might be written on the "Fortune of Physicians.
Seite 59 - A prison is a house of care. A place where none can thrive, A touchstone true to try a friend, A grave for one alive. Sometimes a place of right. Sometimes a place of wrong, Sometimes a place of rogues and thieves, And honest men among.
Seite 82 - Flora in the cherishing of his embrace, hoping that the warmth of his distracted heart might be felt by her who -was as cold as a corpse. The chill air was somewhat softened by the breath of the huddled flock, and the edge of the cutting wind blunted by the stones. It was a place in which it seemed possible that she might revive — miserable as it was with mire-mixed snow — and almost as cold as one supposes the grave.
Seite 391 - I slid along the street impelled by some invisible agent, and that my blood was composed of some ethereal fluid, which rendered my body lighter than air. I got to bed the moment I reached home. The most extraordinary visions of delight filled my brain all night. In the morning I rose pale and dispirited ; my head ached ; my body was so debilitated that I was obliged to remain on the sofa all day, dearly paying for my first essay at opium-eating."* These after-effects are the source of the misery...