On the Study of Celtic LiteratureSmith, Elder, 1867 - 181 стор. |
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antiquity arkite bards basis beauty Book Breton Brithi called Celt Celt-haters Celt-lover Celt's Celtic element Celtic genius Celtic literature Celtic nature Celtic race Celtism Ceridwen charm civilisation clear criticism Crown 8vo Cymri doubt Eisteddfod emotion England English nature Englishman Eugene O'Curry feeling French Gael genuine German nature German poetry give Goethe Greek Gwydion handling nature Indo-European Ireland land Latin Latinised literary Llandudno Llywarch Llywarch Hen looked Lord Strangford Mabinogion manuscripts matter mediæval ment modern Nash Nash's nation natural magic Neustria Norman Ossian passion perception Philistinism philology poem poet poetical power of style prose quick quoted rhetoric Roman Saxon seems Semitic sense and sturdy sentiment Shakspeare Shakspeare's sixth century speech spirit story Strangford sturdy morality Taliesin temperament Teutonic things tion Titanism traces tradition twelfth Wales Welsh and Irish Welsh language Welsh literature Welsh poetry word Zeuss
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Сторінка 168 - The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise ; in such a night, Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night.
Сторінка 157 - What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome?
Сторінка 168 - These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Сторінка 156 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys, Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile!
Сторінка 156 - Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be.
Сторінка 171 - Goethe : — Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Character in dem Strom der Welt.
Сторінка 168 - In such a night, Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismay'd away. Lor. In such a night, Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love To come again to Carthage.
Сторінка 104 - In poetry, again, — poetry which the Celt has so passionately, so nobly loved ; poetry where emotion counts for so much, but where reason, too, reason, measure, sanity, also count for so much, — the Celt has shown genius, indeed, splendid genius ; but even here his faults have clung to him, and hindered him from producing great works, such as other nations with a genius for poetry, — the Greeks, say, or the Italians, — have produced. The Celt has not produced great poetical works, he has...
Сторінка 167 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine...
Сторінка 144 - It has all through it a sort of intoxication of style — a Pindarism, to use a word formed from the name of the poet, on whom, above all other poets, the power of style seems to have exercised an inspiring and intoxicating effect...