A Month in England |
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American amid ancient Anne Boleyn antique Apsley House architecture artist bard beauty behold Ben Jonson beneath breathed bust Castle chapel character charm Chatsworth cheerful Chester chiaroscuro church court crowded dark delight domestic Duke Earl effigies eloquent England English escutcheon Eton College expression familiar fancy fresh gaze genius gentle George's Chapel grace haunt heart hero honour hour human idea imagination inspiration instinct intellectual Italy John Bull Lambeth Palace landscape lion lofty London look luxury mellow memory ment mind modern muse nature noble Oliver Twist once painter passed picturesque poet portraits quaint racter realize recognise rural scene seemed sentiment Shakspere social spirit stranger Street sympathy taste temple thought tints tion Titian towers town trees triumphs trophies Uncle Uncle Tom vast venerable walk walls Warwick Warwick Castle whence window Windsor Windsor Castle wonderful
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Сторінка 135 - This cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading : Lofty and sour to them that loved him not ; But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer...
Сторінка 21 - FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
Сторінка 95 - Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade ; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th...
Сторінка 194 - O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Re-enter PANTHINO.
Сторінка 98 - There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns; And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle ; And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner...
Сторінка 96 - A stranger yet to pain ! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Сторінка 184 - Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings, that fear their subjects
Сторінка 197 - Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Сторінка 1 - Hail, MEMORY, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway ! Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone ; The only pleasures we can call our own.
Сторінка 30 - He* early moulded my taste to the preference of Demosthenes to Cicero, of Homer and Theocritus to Virgil, and again of Virgil to Ovid. He habituated me to compare Lucretius, (in such extracts as I then read) Terence, and above all the chaster...