The Gentleman's Magazine, Volume 297

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Bradbury, Evans, 1904 - English periodicals

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Page 240 - Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Page 551 - May the great God, whom I worship, grant to my country, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it; and may humanity after victory be the predominant feature in the British fleet!
Page 372 - SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings...
Page 122 - All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes,) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Page 432 - O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
Page 374 - With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass Floated redundant...
Page 428 - The observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck'd the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh...
Page 430 - But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood.
Page 431 - Pale as his shirt ; his knees knocking each other ; And with a look so piteous in purport, As if he had been loosed out of hell, To speak of horrors, — he comes before me.
Page 239 - Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance, Bear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the Shield — Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory ! Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd, in his power, Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his Ancestors restored, Like a re-appearing Star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the Flock of War...

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