The City of London Magazine, Volum 1,Edició 1 -Volum 2,Edició 9
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appear bear beautiful become believe called cause character City Class course dark death earth effect evil existence eyes face fact fair fear feel give glory hand happy head hear heart Heaven hope hour human imagination Institution interest kind lady leave Lectures light live London look man's means meet mesmerized mind moral nature never night o'er object observe once operation opinion pass passion person poet poetry poor present principle produced prove punishment question readers reason remarks replied round scene seen smile Society soul speak spirit sweet tell thee things thou thought true truth turn voice whole wild woman write Wyliehart young
Pàgina 143 - And surely your blood of your lives will I require : at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man ; at the hand of every man's brother will I require the life of man. Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed : for in the image of God made he man.
Pàgina 200 - Could I embody and unbosom now, That which is most within me, — could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, And that one word were lightning, I would speak ; But as it is, I live and die unheard, [sword.
Pàgina 198 - My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses ! Till, like one in slumber bound Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.
Pàgina 334 - In Books lies the soul of the whole Past Time ; the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
Pàgina 120 - I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises ; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
Pàgina 337 - The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
Pàgina 198 - The other shape, If shape it might be call'd, that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb, Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
Pàgina 188 - In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, -- No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.
Pàgina 146 - And if a man lie not in wait, but God deliver him into his hand ; then I will appoint thee a place whither he shall flee. But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour, to slay him with guile ; thou shalt take him from mine altar, that he may die.
Pàgina 198 - DUKE'S PALACE. [Enter DUKE, CURIO, LORDS; MUSICIANS attending.] DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.— That strain again;— it had a dying fall; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.— Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.