Sortes Horatianae: A Poetical Review of Poetical Talent, with Notes

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Hamilton, 1814 - English poetry - 126 pages
 

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Page 15 - The next but swept a lone hill-side, Where heath and fern were waving wide...
Page 91 - From the lofty elder-tree ! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly : one might think, From the motions that are made Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or...
Page 91 - Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly ! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush ; But she, God love her ! feared to brush The dust from off its wings.
Page 103 - From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.
Page 57 - WHAT is truth ?" said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. Certainly there be that delight in giddiness, and count it a bondage to fix a belief, affecting free-will in thinking as well as in acting. And though the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone, yet there remain certain discoursing wits which are of the same veins, though there be not so much blood in them as was in those of the ancients.
Page 16 - The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen.
Page 2 - On ne fut plus ni fat ni sot impunément ; Et malheur à tout nom qui, propre à la censure, Put entrer dans un vers sans rompre la mesure ! Perse, en ses vers obscurs , mais serrés et pressans, Affecta d'enfermer moins de mots que de sens.
Page 50 - But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval ; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Page 45 - I'd like to have left out his poetry, Forgot by all almost as well as me. Sometimes he has some humour, never wit. And if it rarely, very rarely hit, 'Tis under...
Page 91 - ORIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind — what can it be ? what food Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain? 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.

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