Відгуки відвідувачів - Написати рецензію
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bard beauty breath bright Browning Byron called Chaucer dark dead dear death deep delight doth Dryden earth English eyes fair fall fame fancy fear feel fire Fletcher flow flowers gave genius give glory grace grave hand happy hast hath head hear heart heaven hill honour hope hour Jonson kings Landor learned leave less light live mighty Milton mind Muse Nature never night numbers o'er once pass play pleased poem poet Pope praise raise rest rise round sacred scene Scott sense shade Shake Shakespeare shepherds Sidney sing smile soft song soul sound speak speare Spenser spirit spring stage stars strain sweet taught tears thee thine things thou thought tongue true truth tuneful turn verse voice worth write youth
Сторінка 260 - Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He...
Сторінка 72 - Ah BEN! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun ? Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad ; And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Сторінка 299 - Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems and new!
Сторінка 254 - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awakened from the dream of life. 'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.
Сторінка 78 - WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones The labour of an age in piled stones ? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
Сторінка 158 - To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face : the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled. ' This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of joy l Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Сторінка 258 - Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become?
Сторінка 103 - That Majesty which through thy Work doth Reign Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane. And things divine thou treat'st of in such state As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. At once delight and horror on us seize, Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; And above human flight dost soar aloft With Plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you sing So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.
Сторінка 209 - In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier ; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear : Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade — but nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy...
Сторінка 224 - John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible, without Greek Contrived to talk about the gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.