Cathcart's Literary Reader: A Manual of English Literature : Being Typical Selections from Some of the Best British and American Authors from Shakespeare to the Present Time, Chronologically Arranged, with Biographical and Critical Sketches, and Numerous Notes, Etc
American Book Company, 1901 - 541 стор.
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Cathcart's Literary Reader: A Manual of English Literature: Being Typical ...
George Rhett Cathcart
Попередній перегляд недоступний - 2015
Cathcart's Literary Reader: A Manual of English Literature; Being Typical ...
George Rhett Cathcart
Попередній перегляд недоступний - 2017
appeared bear beauty born called century character close common death delight died early earth England English expression eyes face fair fall father fear feel gave give hand hath head heart heaven honor hope hour human imagination Italy kind king known land language later learned less letters light lines literary literature living look Lord manner means mind morning nature never night noble once original passed plays poems poet poetry political praise present published reason rest seemed sense Shakespeare soul sound spirit succession sweet tell thee things thou thought took true turn verse whole writings wrote young youth
Сторінка 357 - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and. curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " "Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more.
Сторінка 358 - Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, — "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore: Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!
Сторінка 280 - A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart...
Сторінка 68 - The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds
Сторінка 33 - O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
Сторінка 144 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs - and God has given my share I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
Сторінка 276 - The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Сторінка 237 - Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.
Сторінка 283 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Сторінка 277 - And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight : and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.