Comentarios de la gente - Escribir un comentario
No encontramos ningún comentario en los lugares habituales.
Otras ediciones - Ver todas
The Museum of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, Volumen38
Robert Walsh,John Jay Smith
Vista completa - 1840
The Museum of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, Volumen28
Robert Walsh,John Jay Smith
Vista completa - 1836
admiration American animal appear arms Austria beautiful birds Blackwood's Magazine Byron called character church colour Congress of Vienna death delight Dumont duty earth England English Europe eyes father favour fear feel foreign France French genius give Grindlewald habits hand head heard heart heaven honour hope hour human imagination interest Italy Junot king labour lady less living look Lord Lord Byron Madame de Staël Major-General Amherst manner ment mind Mirabeau Napoleon nation nature never Niger night object observed occasion once opinion party passed perhaps person Poland political possession present principle produced racter remarkable rendered Russia scarcely scene seems seen Sir Walter Scott soon sound Spain species spirit sweet thee thing thou thought tion voice whole words writer young
Página 394 - TO him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Página 394 - The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,— the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods— rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
Página 389 - And when he came into the house, he suffered no man to go in, save Peter, and James, and John, and the father and the mother of the maiden. 52 And all wept, and bewailed her: but he said, Weep not: she is not dead, but sleepeth. 53 And they laughed him to scorn, knowing that she was dead. 54 And he put them all out, and took her by the hand, and called, saying, Maid, arise. 55 And her spirit came again, and she arose straightway: and he commanded to give her meat.
Página 394 - Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world - with kings, The powerful of the earth - the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.
Página 18 - They slept on the abyss without a surge — The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon their mistress had expired before ; The winds were withered in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them— She was the universe.
Página 395 - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Página 282 - Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
Página 396 - There through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.
Página 421 - Fountain heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan, These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley : Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.