The Critical Review, Or, Annals of Literature

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Tobias Smollett
W. Simpkin and R. Marshall, 1803

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Page 70 - Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: These ears alas! for other notes repine; A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire; Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain. I fruitless mourn to him that...
Page 4 - They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poison, may have some idea of the horrors of my situation; others can have none.
Page 9 - As for me, I am a very smart youth of my years; I am not indeed grown grey so much as I am grown bald. No matter: there was more hair in the world than ever had the honour to belong to me; accordingly having found just enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little of my own, that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, to have a very decent headdress...
Page 3 - Cast forth a wand'rer on a wild unknown ! , See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free', All that delights the happy — palls with me...
Page 458 - O shame to human life, to human laws ! The loose adventurer, hireling of a day, Who his fell sword without affection draws. Whose God, whose country, is a tyrant's pay. This man the lessons of the field can learn ; Can every palm, which decks a warrior, earn, And every pledge of conquest: while in vain, To guard your altars, your paternal lands, Are social arms held out to your free hands : Too arduous is the lore ; too irksome were the pain.
Page 303 - I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, By the roes, and by the hinds of the field, That ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.
Page 29 - Within a long recess there lies a bay : An island shades it from the rolling sea, And forms a port secure for ships to ride : Broke by the jutting land on either side, In double streams the briny waters glide, Betwixt two rows of rocks : a sylvan scene Appears above, and groves for ever green : A grot is form'd beneath, with mossy seats, To rest the Nereids, and exclude the heats.
Page 358 - Approaching parts with quick embrace combines, Swells into spheres, and lengthens into lines. Last, as fine goads the gluten-threads excite, Cords grapple cords, and webs with webs unite; And quick CONTRACTION with ethereal flame Lights into life the fibre-woven frame.
Page 360 - Organic life beneath the shoreless waves Was born and nurs'd in Ocean's pearly caves; First forms minute, unseen by spheric glass, Move on the mud or pierce the watery mass; These, as successive generations bloom, New powers acquire, and larger limbs assume; Whence countless groups of vegetation spring, And breathing realms of fin, and feet, and wing.
Page 303 - I will rise now, and go about the city In the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth : I sought him, but I found him not.

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