The Beginnings of the English Romantic Movement: A Study in Eighteenth Century Literature

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Ginn, 1893 - 192 pages
 

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Page 164 - On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air;) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
Page 165 - Nor wash his visage in the stream. Nor see the sun's departing beam. Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile Flaming on the fun'ral pile. Now my weary lips I close : Leave me, leave me to repose.
Page 164 - Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain, Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Page 163 - To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began.
Page 106 - I waked one morning in the beginning of last June from a dream, of which all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine with Gothic story) and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour.
Page 179 - When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.
Page 168 - In our little journey up to the Grande Chartreuse, I do not remember to have gone ten paces without an exclamation, that there was no restraining. Not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry.
Page 165 - Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our Friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of fate we tread, Wading thro' th' ensanguin'd field : Gondula, and Geira, spread O'er the youthful King your shield.
Page 150 - Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, in Six Books: Together with several other Poems, composed by Ossian, the Son of Fingal.
Page 91 - Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh , Let us with silent footsteps go , To charnels and the house of woe, To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek...

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