The Hymns of Homer: The Batrachomyomachia; and Two Original Poetical Hymns

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C. Whittingham, 1818 - 200 стор.

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Сторінка l - He would have made a great epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shewn himself to be one; for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the stories of Achilles and Ulysses re-written.
Сторінка viii - For although a Poet, soaring in the high region of his fancies with his garland and singing robes about him...
Сторінка l - He could not go out of himself, as Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate other existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul to embrace all forms and modes of being.
Сторінка xxxvii - THE WHOLE WORKS OF HOMER; PRINCE OF POETTS In his Iliads, and Odysses. Translated according to the Greeke, By Geo: Chapman.
Сторінка 26 - Are newly worn; and as sweet poesy Will not be clad in her supremacy With those strange garments (Rome's hexameters), As she is English ; but in right prefers Our native robes (put on with skilful hands English heroics) to those antic garlands...
Сторінка xlviii - ... the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten : and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry and true nonsense ; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes ; and I have indignation enough to burn a d'Ambois annually to the memory of Jonson.
Сторінка 19 - All you possessed with indepressed spirits, Endued with nimble, and aspiring wits, Come consecrate with me to sacred Night Your whole endeavours, and detest the light. Sweet Peace's richest crown is made of stars, Most certain guides of honoured mariners; No pen can anything eternal write, That is not steeped in humour of the Night.
Сторінка 39 - His beauty was it, not the body's pride, That made him great Aquarius stellified. And that mind most is beautiful and high, And nearest comes to a Divinity, That furtherest is from spot of Earth's delight, Pleasures that lose their substance with their sight, Such one, Saturnius ravisheth to love, And fills the cup of all content to Jove.
Сторінка xiv - ... of Oration as are most apt for the language into which they are converted.
Сторінка 29 - Her arbours, thickets, and her wondrous game, (A huntress, being never match'd in fame), Presume not then ye flesh-confounded souls, That cannot bear the full Castalian bowls, Which sever mounting spirits from the senses, To look in this deep fount for thy pretences : The juice more clear than day, yet shadows night...

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