Essays and poems

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Saunders and Otley, 1844

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Pagina 66 - The seasons' difference ; as the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,— This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Pagina 69 - Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress
Pagina 66 - Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons...
Pagina 69 - They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Pagina 61 - After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days; My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. O holy hope! and high humility! High as the heavens above; These are your walks, and you have showed them me, To kindle my cold love.
Pagina 77 - For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill...
Pagina 69 - With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes,...
Pagina 74 - Hamlet is a name; his speeches and sayings but the idle coinage of the poet's brain. What then, are they not real? They are as real as our own thoughts. Their reality is in the reader's mind. It is we who are Hamlet.
Pagina 61 - To kindle my cold love, Dear, beauteous death! the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere but in the dark, What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!
Pagina 71 - WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer ? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? More healthful than the...

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