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Bard bear beauties Behold better blest boast brain claim classic combined common Condemned Critics daily dare delight display dull Edinburgh EDITION English Epic fall fame fear feel follies fools genius GIFFORD hallowed hand head heroes honour hope inspiration JEFFREY kind known late learned least leave less live London Lord lost lyre mean mind Muse night notes o'er once pass person poem Poet poet's poetical Pope praise present Prince PRINTED prose published race raise reason resign rhyme rise Satire scenes SCOTCH sense sleep smile song Sonnets sons soul sound spare Spirit stage strain STREET taste tell thee themes thine thing thou thousand throng translator Triumphs turn verse voice wish worthy write yield young youth
Page 63 - 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 wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart.
Page 11 - And think'st thou, Scott, by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per 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.
Page 62 - WHITE !t 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 18 - ... shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of
Page 12 - To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per 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 for stern mammon may they toil in vain!
Page 2 - Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.
Page 19 - And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the 'idiot in his glory' Conceive the bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a pixy for a muse, Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegise an ass.
Page 4 - 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...
Page 4 - A mind well skilled 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 lucky hit, Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling— pass your proper jest, And stand a critic hated yet caressed.