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adieu admire affection appear arms bard beauty beneath bids bosom breast breath cease chief Childe claim dare dark dead dear death dream early English fair fall fame fate fear feel fire flame flow foes fond forget former friendship future given glory glow grave hall hand head heart heaven hope hour Italy kiss Lady least leave less live look Lord Byron love's meet mind muse nature ne'er never night o'er once Oscar passion past poems poet praise published raise rank rest Review rise roll round scenes seek shade sigh sleep smile song soul sound spirit strain tears tell thee thine thou thought truth turn verse voice wave weep wings wish write written young youth
Page 226 - Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of an idiot boy...
Page 131 - AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war ; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Page 202 - And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove ! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.
Page 223 - To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
Page 212 - Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay, To what unknown region borne Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight} No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
Page 209 - THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His «cffusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get (above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant 'water.
Page 133 - Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse, ere I tread you again: Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain: England! thy beauties are tame and domestic, To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar: Oh!
Page 210 - Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.
Page 24 - I was very civil to him during his few hours' stay, and talked with him much of Irving, whose writings are my delight. But I suspect that he did not take quite so much to me, from his having expected to meet a misanthropical gentleman, in wolf-skin breeches, and answering in fierce monosyllables, instead of a man of this world. I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake,...