The English language: its sources [&c., by T. Page].

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Page 62 - He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul, All the images of Nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too.
Page 118 - O'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
Page 116 - Lords and commons of England, consider what nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors : a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to invent, subtile and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point the highest that human capacity can soar to.
Page 113 - Alas ! — how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love ! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm, when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity...
Page 111 - Farewell ! a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him . The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Page 119 - O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down. And steep my senses in forgetfulness...
Page 55 - A KNIGHT ther was, and that a worthy man, That fro the tyme that he first bigan To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye.
Page 67 - Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, he said, was the only book that ever took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to rise.
Page 110 - What need a man forestal his date of grief, And run to meet what he would most avoid? Or if they be but false alarms of fear, How bitter is such self-delusion...
Page 54 - A somer sesun • whon softe was the sonne, I schop me in-to a schroud • A scheep as I were ; In Habite of an Hermite • vn-holy of werkes, Wende I wydene in this world • wondres to here.

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