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admiration amusing appeared beautiful beginning Bentham born brought Byron called character child critics curious death delightful died doubt early England English entirely existence eyes fame feeling followed force friends genius give given greatest hands heart hope human idea imagination important individual interest Irish Italy kind lady least less letters light literary literature lived London Lord Mackintosh means mind Miss moral nature never noble once pain passion perhaps period person philosopher picture pleasure poem poet poetical poetry political poor possible present produced published reader received record says scarcely seems sense sentiment Shelley side society song soul spirit story success sweet tell theory thing thought tion touch turn verse wild wonderful write written young youth
Page 48 - Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again! Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending...
Page 89 - My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
Page 57 - The sky is changed! - and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
Page 49 - Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; — I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
Page 221 - With deep affection • And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells, "Whose sounds so wild would. In the days of childhood, . . Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On, this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee,— With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand, on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
Page 122 - She was a Goddess of the infant world ; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
Page 97 - He is made one with Nature : there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; Which wields the world with never wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
Page 115 - Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, "Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.