The Quarterly review, Volume 11

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Murray, 1814

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Page 314 - For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Poetic fields encompass me around And still I seem to tread on classic ground...
Page 282 - Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Page 178 - I'll rant as well as thou. Queen. This is mere madness : And thus a while the fit will work on him ; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclosed. His silence will sit drooping.
Page 121 - Upon the king ! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins lay on the king ! We must bear all.
Page 179 - The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
Page 216 - Nothing therefore remains for us but 'to play the part of advocates' in our own cause, which, according to the writer of the 'Remarks,' is one of our grievous offences. Before we proceed to justify, it may not be out of place to say a few words on the general character of the articles we propose to examine. The author of the 'Remarks on the Calumnies of the Quarterly Review...
Page 190 - he did not beg a long life of God for any other reason, " but to live to finish his three remaining books of Polity ; " and then, Lord, let thy servant depart in peace;" which was his usual expression.
Page 314 - Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
Page 376 - Saxon gentlemen are laughing," he said, "because a poor man, such as me, thinks my life, or the life of six of my degree, is worth that of Vich Ian Vohr, it's like enough they may be very right ; but if they laugh because they think I would not keep my word and come back to redeem him, I can tell them they ken neither the heart of a Hielandman, nor the honour of a gentleman.
Page 432 - Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt...

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