What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
allow appear Bard bear beauty Behold better blest boast claim classic combine common Condemned Critics daily dare delight display dull Edinburgh Edition English Epic equal fair fame fear feel folly fools genius GIFFORD grace hand head hear heard heroes honour hope inspiration JEFFREY kind known late least leave less living Lord lyre mentioned mind Muse native night notes o'er o’er once pass person poem Poet's poetry praise present Prince printed prose published race raise reason resign Review rhyme rise Satire scenes seek seems sense sleep song Sonnets sons soul sound Spirit stage strain taste tell thee themes thine thing thou thousand throng translator Triumphs turn verse voice wish worthy write yield young
Page 51 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel „ While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Page 1 - Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers ; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd, Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree ; And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry : 'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag.
Page 50 - Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret, that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
Page 16 - Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base.
Page 16 - ... 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 : Still...
Page 9 - Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.
Page 10 - A mind well skill'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 : Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.
Page 50 - UNHAPPY White !* while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When science...
Page 19 - Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double : Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
Page 11 - 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.