Letters to Lord Byron on a Question of Poetical Criticism: With Corrections, to which are ... Added the Letter to Mr. Campbell, as Far as Regards Põetical Criticism, and the Answer to the Writer in the Quarterly Review, Together with an Answer to Some Objections, and Further Illus
Hurst, Robinson, 1822 - 217 páginas
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adapted to poetry admitted affecting answer appears arguments artificial associations beautiful Bowles called CAMPBELL canal character circumstances compared confined connected considered criticism derived described drawn Epistle equally excellence execution exquisite external fair feelings follow genius give head heart higher highest HOMER human ideas images imagination interest JUNIOR kind least leave LELAND less Letter LIBRARIES light look Lord Byron Lordship Lost manners mean Milton mind minute moral nature needle never object observe opinion ORGANIZED painting particular passage passions pathetic picture picturesque poem poet poetical poetry Pope Pope's principles proposition proved Quarterly question quoted rank reader reason respect Review sails satires seen SHAKESPEARE shew ship speak spear spoken stand STANFORD sublime suppose taken thing thought thousand trees true UNIVERSITY waves whole winds writer
Página 80 - WHO is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah? this that is glorious in his apparel, travelling in the greatness of his strength ? I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save.
Página 38 - Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless...
Página 93 - First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of Art. Art from that fund each just supply provides; Works without show, and without pomp presides: In some fair body thus th...
Página 99 - He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
Página 50 - These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then ! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Página 11 - And now the tempter thus his silence broke : The city which thou seest no other deem Than great and glorious Rome...
Página 51 - He made darkness his secret place, his pavilion round about Him with dark water, and thick clouds to cover Him.
Página 10 - His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great admiral, were but a wand...
Página 61 - I see before me the gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him ; he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
Página 61 - Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday, — All this rushed with his blood. — Shall he expire, And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire!