Imatges de pÓgina

I had much rather see

A crested dragon, or a basilisk;
Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.

Dryden's Don Sebastian.

No voice of friendly salutation cheer'd him,
None wish'd his arms might thrive, or bad God-speed


But through a staring ghastly looking crowd,
Unhail'd, unblest, with heavy heart he went.

Rowe's Lady Jane Grey, a. 4, s. 1.

Oh, that I could but mate him in his night,
Oh, that we were on the dark wave together,
With but one plank between us and destruction,
That I might grasp him in these desperate arms,
And plunge with him amid the weltering billows,
And view him gasp for life!

Maturin's Bertram, a. 2, s. 1.

His dame plead for me!

When my cold corse, torn from some felon wheel,
Or dug from lightless depth of stony dungeon,
Welters in the cold gaze of pitiless strangers,
Then fling it at his gate, whose cursed stones
My living foot treads never,—yet beware

Lest the corse burst its cearments stark, and curse thee.
Ibid. a. 3, s. 2.

By Heaven and all its host he shall not perish!
Bertram. By Hell and all its host, he shall not live!
This is no transient flash of fugitive passion-
His death hath been my life for years of misery-
Which else I had not lived-

Upon that thought, and not on food, I fed,
Upon that thought, and not on sleep, I rested—
I came to do the deed that must be done-
Nor thou, nor sheltering angels, could prevent me.

Ibid, a. 4, s. 2.

I'll keep my way alone, and burn away—
Evil or good I care not, so I spread
Tremendous desolation on my road :—
I'll be remembered as huge meteors are ;
From the dismay they scatter.

Proctor's Mirandola, a. 3, s. 2.

If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though Their sting is honester.

Byron's Two Foscari, a. 3, s. 1.

I know thee not, nor ever saw till now
Sight more detestable than him and thee.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 2.

To thee I call,

But with no friendly voice, and add thy name
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down.

Ibid. b. 4.

Thus they in mutual accusation spent
The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning,
And of the vain contest appear'd no end. Ibid. b. 9.

Disgust conceal'd

Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault

Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.


Cowper's Task, b. 3.

Oh, thou beautiful

And unimaginable ether! and
Ye multiplying masses of increased

And still-increasing lights! what are ye? what
Is this blue wilderness of interminable
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden?
Is your course measur'd for ye? Or do
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry
Through an aërial universe of endless
Expansion, at which my soul aches to think,
Intoxicated with eternity?


Oh God! Oh Gods! or whatsoe'er ye are !
How beautiful ye are! how beautiful
Your works, or accident, or whatsoe'er
They may be! Let me die, as atoms die,
(If that they die) or know ye in your might
And knowledge! My thoughts are not in this hour
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is;
Spirit! let me expire, or see them nearer.

Byron's Cain, a. 2, s. 1.

Amongst innumerable stars, that shone

Stars distant, but nigh hand seem'd other worlds.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 3.


Is as the book of God before thee set,
Wherein to read his wond'rous works.

Devotion! daughter of astronomy!
An undevout astronomer is mad.

Ibid, b. 8.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 9.

This prospect vast, what is it?-weigh'd aright, 'Tis nature's system of divinity,

And every student of the night inspires.

'Tis elder scripture, writ by God's own hand: Scripture authentic! uncorrupt by man.


One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine;
And light us deep into the Deity;

How boundless in magnificence and might!
O what a confluence of ethereal fires,

From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of Heaven,
Streams to a point, and centers in my sight!
Nor tarries there; I feel it at my heart:
My heart, at once, it humbles, and exalts;
Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 9.

What involution! what extent! what swarms
Of worlds, that laugh at earth! immensely great!
Immensely distant from each other's spheres ;
What then, the wond'rous space thro' which they roll?
At once it quite ingulphs all human thought;
'Tis comprehension's absolute defeat.


Yet from those flames

No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end.


Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.

Hell at last

Yawning receiv'd them whole, and on them clos'd; Hell their fit habitation fraught with fire Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.

Ibid, b. 6.

Fast we found, fast shut

The dismal gates, barricado'd strong;
But long ere our approaching heard within
Noise, other than the sound of dance or song,
Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.

Ibid. b. 8.


I know thee for a man of many thoughts,
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.

Byron's Manfred, a. 2, s. 2.

To overcome in battle, and subdue

Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glory, and for glory done

Of triumph, to be styl'd great conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, Gods, and sons of Gods,
Destroyers rightlier call'd and plagues of men.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 11.

Conquerors, who leave behind

Nothing but ruin, wheresoe'er they rove,
And all the flourishing works of peace destroy,
Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods,
Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers,
Worshipp'd with temple, priest and sacrifice;
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other;
Till conqu❜ror Death discover them scarce men,
Rolling in brutish vices, and deform'd,
'Violent or shameful, death their due reward.

Milton's Paradise Regained, b. 3.

At ev'ry step

Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,
Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil,
He not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischiefs he has done.

Cowper's Task, b. 1.

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