Romance and Reality, Томове 1–2

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Страница 14 - The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. Or chasms and wat'ry depths ; all these have vanished They live no longer in the faith of reason...
Страница 160 - High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing...
Страница 241 - There the wicked cease from troubling; And there the weary are at rest. There the prisoners are at ease together ; They hear not the voice of the taskmaster.
Страница 63 - At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!
Страница 25 - But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration...
Страница 71 - The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon, Then into the night he looked forth; And red and bright the streamers light Were dancing in the glowing north. So had he seen, in fair Castile, The youth in glittering squadrons start, Sudden the flying jennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart. He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light.
Страница 215 - I ought to do — and did my best — And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him — with eyes as blue as heaven...
Страница 59 - Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair, She had not known her child.
Страница 160 - What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Страница 66 - To again quote the oracles of my highpriest, Wordsworth, there is nothing like ' The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on its own heart.' What ' truths divine' crowd every page of Wordsworth's writings ! I sometimes wish to be a modern Alexander, that I might have Mount Athos carved into, not my own statue but his.

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