Irish Monthly, Volume 151887 |
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
acrostic Amelia answered asked beautiful bless Bourke Burns & Oates Catholic child Church Cistercian cried cried Nesta Dalton David Gray David Weir dear death delight Dermod Dublin Dudley Elsa's eyes face Father feel felt Fisher Frank Adair girl give glad hand happy hear heard heart Heather Court holy hope hour Ireland IRISH MONTHLY John KATHARINE TYNAN kind King King of Leinster KINGSCOURT kissed knew lady laughing Leibnitz Leinster letter Limerick live London look Lord mamma Meath Miss Dillon mother Nelly Nesta's never night once picture poem poet poetry poor pray princes promise Redfern replied Rody seems singing smiling song Song of Roland Sonnet soon soul sure sweet tears tell thee things thou thought told turned uncle voice volume wish wonder words write young
Popular passages
Page 521 - O Love ! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high ; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Page 570 - Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow ; a glowworm lamp It...
Page 521 - Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Page 572 - And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells; In truth the prison unto which we doom Ourselves no prison is : and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief...
Page 92 - Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands : Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd, The wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there ; And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
Page 575 - Of its own arduous fulness reverent : Carve it in ivory or in ebony, As day or night may rule, and let Time see Its flowering crest impearled and orient. A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals The soul — its converse to what power 'tis due...
Page 572 - NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room ; And hermits are contented with their cells , And students with their pensive citadels , Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is...
Page 69 - Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Page 244 - Gentlemen of the jury, what say you ? Is the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty ? " With a firm, clear voice, the foreman, a captain in the army, uttered the word — " Guilty." Murmurs of applause from some, and of disapprobation from others, instantly resounded through the hall of justice. From the reluctant manner in which the judge put the black cap upon hia head, it was evident he was not altogether satisfied with the finding of the jury.
Page 569 - Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea; A precious jewel carved most curiously; It is a little picture painted well. What is a sonnet? 'Tis the tear that fell From a great poet's hidden ecstasy; A two-edged sword, a star, a song, — ah me! Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell.