Memoir of the late John Talwin Shewell, to which is appended Notes of his Italian journey, and fugitive poems

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William Hunt, Steam Press, 1870 - 453 pages

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Page 216 - I see before me the gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him ; he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
Page 133 - I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; A palace and a prison on each hand : I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand...
Page 94 - Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity...
Page 171 - So on he fares, and to the border comes Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champaign head Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, Access denied...
Page 191 - But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone with nothing like to thee Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook His former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in His honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
Page 233 - Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, And majesty, flash their full lightnings by Developing in that one glance the Deity.
Page 50 - How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle ; and who justly, in return, Esteems that busy world an idler too ! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry...
Page 229 - There is the moral of all human tales ; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory when that fails Wealth, vice, corruption barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Page 97 - Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Page 268 - The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; The Scipios...

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