Noctes Ambrosianæ

United States Book Company, successors to J.W. Lovell Company, 1891

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Página 532 - twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.
Página 425 - A stranger yet to pain ? I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Página 552 - I'll never forget with what elated dignity he stood straight up in the middle of that floor and rosined his bow ; there was a twist of the lip and an upward beam of the eye that were truly sublime.
Página 75 - North. Tickler, pray make less noise, if you can, in drinking, and also in putting down your tumbler. You break in upon the repose of James's picture. Shepherd. Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting, wi' faulded wings, on a gowan, no a yard frae your cheek ; and noo, waukening out o...
Página 17 - • His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ! " For it dwelt in tumult, and mischief and rebellion. Wordsworth is in all things, the reverse of Milton — a good man and a bad poet. Tickler. What ! — That Wordsworth whom Maga cries up as the Prince of Poets? North. Be it so; I must humor the fancies of some of my friends. But had that man been a great poet, he would have produced a deep and lasting impression on the mind of England...
Página 552 - ... joke going on with our friends, as if no such thrilling strains had been flowing. But if Sym's eye chanced at all to fall on them, it instantly retreated upwards again in mild indignation. To his honour be it mentioned, he has left me a legacy of that inestimable violin, provided that I outlive him.* But not for a thousand such would I part with my old friend.
Página 26 - Thank heaven for winter ! Would that it lasted all year long ! Spring is pretty well in its way, with budding branches and carolling birds, and wimpling burnies, and fleecy skies, and dew-like showers softening and brightening the bosom of old mother earth. Summer is not much amiss, with umbrageous woods, glittering atmosphere, and awakening thunderstorms. Nor let me libel Autumn in her gorgeous bounty, and her beautiful decays. But Winter, dear cold-handed, warm-hearted Winter, welcome thou to my...
Página 18 - Crabbe, with all his defects, stands immeasurably above Wordsworth as the Poet of the Poor. Tickler. Good. And yet the youngsters, in that absurd Magazine of yours, set him up to the stars as their idol, and kiss his very feet, as if the toes were of gold. North. Well, well ; let them have their own way a while. I confess that the " Excursion " is the worst poem, of any character, in the English language.
Página 282 - ... the sowl o' man to his gustative natur;" then is the fast, foul, fat feeder a glutton, the maist disgustfu'est cretur that sits — and far aneath the level o' them that feed, on a' fowres, out o
Página xii - ... have been well led ; and I should not be doing justice to my own feelings if I were not, on my arrival here, to repeat the expressions of admiration extorted from me as I passed along in view of the difficulties you had to meet, and which you have so triumphantly surmounted.

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