The Life and Times of Oliver Goldsmith

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B. Tauchnitz, 1873 - 408 стор.
 

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Сторінка 84 - Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.
Сторінка 321 - Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind. His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
Сторінка 88 - Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene...
Сторінка 154 - Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength and lean to hear...
Сторінка 84 - Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt, at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all...
Сторінка 147 - Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour.
Сторінка 205 - For he who fights and runs away May live to fight another day ; But he who is in battle slain Can never rise and fight again.
Сторінка 154 - Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye...
Сторінка 50 - Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more.
Сторінка 212 - Here lies our good Edmund,' whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.

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