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Página 424 - For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem, —a thought so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing.
Página 227 - Of this great consummation; and, by words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep Of death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures...
Página 306 - The red-bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead, And fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim.
Página 31 - Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible, without Greek Contrived to talk about the gods of late Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
Página 459 - Ophelia — poor Ophelia ! Oh, far too soft, too good, too fair to be cast among the briers of this working-day world, and fall and bleed upon the thorns of life ! What shall be said of her ? for eloquence is mute before her ! Like a strain of sad, sweet music which comes floating by us on the wings of night and silence, and which we rather feel than hear — like the exhalation of...
Página 83 - Don't catch the fidgets ; you have found your place Just in the focus of a nervous race, Fretful to change, and rabid to discuss, Full of excitements, always in a fuss ; — Think of the patriarchs ; then compare as men These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen...
Página 34 - Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile! Again shall Elia's smile Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more. What is it we deplore? He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, Far worthier things than tears. The love of friends without a single foe: Unequalled lot below! His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine; For these dost thou repine?
Página 460 - I have always envied the Catholics their faith in that sweet, sacred Virgin Mother, who stands between them and the Deity, intercepting somewhat of His awful splendor, but permitting His love to stream upon the worshipper, more intelligibly to human comprehension, through the medium of a woman's tenderness.