Tragedies, Issue 73

Front Cover
E. Moxon, 1840 - 303 pages
 

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Page 14 - More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die...
Page 14 - Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourned 'twill fall Like choicest music...
Page 94 - Thou wouldst have wean'd me from thee ? Couldst thou think I would be so divorced ? Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe, — It was a shallow and an idle thought; 'Tis past ; no show of coldness frets us now ; No vain disguise, my love.
Page 87 - Oh, I do ! I do ! ION. If for thy brother's and thy father's sake Thou art content to live, the healer, Time. Will reconcile thee to the lovely things Of this delightful world, — and if another, A happier — no, I cannot bid thee love Another ! — I did think I could have said it, But 'tis in vain. CLEMANTHE. Thou art mine own then still ? ION.
Page 12 - Bespeaks unseemly forwardness — send me ! The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh, If Heaven select it for its instrument, May shed celestial music on the breeze, As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold Befits the lip of Phoebus ; — ye are wise ; And needed by your country ; ye are fathers ! I am a lone stray thing, whose little life By strangers...
Page 55 - On falling nations, and on kingly lines About to sink for ever : ye, who shed Into the passions of earth's giant brood And their fierce usages the sense of justice ; Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe Through the proud halls of...
Page 65 - No ; let me meet thy gaze ; For breathing pity lights thy features up Into more awful likeness of a form Which once shone on me ; — and which now my sense Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave, Inviting me to the sad realm where shades Of innocents, whom passionate regard Link'd with the guilty, are content to pace With them the margin of the inky flood Mournful and calm ; — 'tis surely...
Page 66 - Adras. — What strange words Are these which call my senses from the death They were composed to welcome ? — Son ! 'tis false — I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! Medon.
Page 56 - Through the proud halls of time-emboldened guilt Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence, For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate This arm to the destruction of the king And of his race; O keep me pitiless : Expel all human weakness from my frame, That this keen weapon shake not when his heart Should feel its point ; and if he has a child Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — Was not that thunder ? Ctes.

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