Hours of idleness. English bards and Scotch reviewers. Hints from Horace. The curse of Minerva. The waltz. Age of bronze. The vision of judgment. Morgante maggiore
John Murray, 1831
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adieu appear arms bard beauty beneath better bosom breast chief claim dare dark dead dear death dream earth edition fair fall fame fate fear feel fire flow foes forget former friendship future give given glory glow grave hand head hear heart heaven hope Hours king least leave less lines live look Lord Lord Byron meet mind muse ne'er never night o'er once pass past peace poem poor praise present printed private volume published race raise rest rhyme rise roll round scarce scene seek shade sigh sleep smile song soul sound spirit strain tears thee thine thing thou thought TRANSLATION truth turn verse virtues voice wave wing wish young youth
Seite 319 - We know what we are, but we know not what we may be...
Seite 201 - THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water.
Seite 256 - Science' self destroy'd her favourite son! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : So the struck eagle...
Seite 206 - ... that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but " has the sway
Seite 331 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Seite 225 - ... shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of
Seite 407 - In the first year of freedom's second dawn Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn Left him nor mental nor external sun...
Seite 18 - No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
Seite 145 - Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse, ere I tread you again: Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain: England! thy beauties are tame and domestic, To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar: Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.