Comentarios de usuarios - Escribir una reseña
No hemos encontrado ninguna reseña en los sitios habituales.
Otras ediciones - Ver todo
Les Poètes Anglais Et Les Auteurs de l'Edinburg Review: Satire Traduite de l ...
George Gordon Byron
No hay ninguna vista previa disponible - 2017
Les Poètes Anglais Et Les Auteurs De L'edinburg Review: Satire Traduite De L ...
No hay ninguna vista previa disponible - 2020
applaud arts auteur Bard beau bells Bowles brillant chants charm cherchant coeur commun COTTLE Critics critique dernier donne doux Dunedin écrits esprits fame femmes first génie GIFFORD gloire goût great Grèce HALLAM hélas heureux homme inspire j'ai JEFFREY jeune jour juger juste l'auteur laisse LAMB last livre long lord lyre main malheureux mille MOORE mort Muse name noble nouveau nuit o'er once ouvrages PAGE parle pass pays peine peut-être place plume poème poésie poète Pope praise premier Prince prose public qu'en qu'un regards reste Review rhyme rien rime rival s'il satire sens sera seul shall siècle song sonnets sort sots SOUTHEY still strain style sublime talent tell tendre their thine thou though time tour traits triomphe trouve vain venir verse veut veux vice vieille viens voit Voyez yeux yield
Página 28 - Who, both by precept and example, 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 "an idiot boy...
Página 86 - And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest . Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Página 88 - Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to Genius — Trite; Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest; Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.
Página 10 - d to find or forge a fault; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet...
Página 30 - And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the 'idiot in his glory' Conceive the bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a pixy for a muse, Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegise an ass.
Página 20 - And think'st thou, Scott, by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine 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.
Página 26 - Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend 'to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double...
Página 12 - twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment? no— as soon Seek roses in December— ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.
Página 86 - And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.