The American Whig Review, Հատոր 3

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Wiley and Putnam, 1846
 

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Էջ 119 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Էջ 122 - And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus...
Էջ 164 - She crieth at the gates, at the entry of the city, at the coming in at the doors: "Unto you, O men, I call; and my voice is to the sons of man.
Էջ 118 - Sweet, rouse yourself ; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, Be shook to air.
Էջ 124 - Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid Tunes her nocturnal note...
Էջ 186 - TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art — Still seem as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Էջ 398 - I have sought the Lord night and day, that He would rather slay me than put me upon the doing of this work.
Էջ 186 - O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! ' ;" '""' As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.
Էջ 82 - European powers to extend their system to any portion of this hemisphere as dangerous to our peace and safety...
Էջ 122 - Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

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