Hours of idleness. English bards and Scotch reviewers. Hints from Horace. The curse of Minerva. The waltz. Age of bronze. The vision of judgment. Morgante maggiore
John Murray, 1831
Anacreon Asmodeus bard beams beauty behold beneath blest bosom breast Calmar Capel Lofft CATULLUS dare dark dead dear death deeds dream e'en earth Edinburgh Review edition of Hours fame fate fear feel flame foes fond forget friendship gentle glory glow grave heart heaven heroes honour hope Hours of Idleness Hours of Idleness.-ED king kiss Latian lines live Lochlin Lord Byron love's last adieu lyre Mathon Morgante Morven muse ne'er never NEWSTEAD ABBEY night Nisus Nisus and Euryalus note by Lord numbers o'er once Orla Orlando Oscar pangs poem poet Pomposus praise pride printed private volume private volume.-ED remembrance resign rhyme rise roll Saint Peter scarce scene shade sigh sire sleep smile song soothe soul Southey stanzas strain tears thee thine thou throng tomb truth verse virtues voice wave weep wing youth
Page 319 - We know what we are, but we know not what we may be...
Page 201 - 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 effusions 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 256 - Science' self destroy'd her favourite son! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : So the struck eagle...
Page 206 - ... that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but " has the sway
Page 331 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Page 225 - ... shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 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
Page 407 - In the first year of freedom's second dawn Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn Left him nor mental nor external sun...
Page 18 - No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
Page 145 - Years have roll'd on, Loch na 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! for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.