Selections from the Letters of Robert Southey ...

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Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1856 - Authors, English

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Page 59 - This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.
Page 288 - Come, listen to a tale of times of old! Come, for ye know me! I am he who sung The maid of Arc; and I am he who framed Of Thalaba the wild and wonderous song.
Page 184 - Lamb and his sister see us often : he is printing his play, which will please you by the exquisite beauty of its poetry, and provoke you by the exquisite silliness of its story.
Page 94 - DEAR FRIEND : It is so long since I have heard from you, that I suppose Rome engrosses every moment of your time ; and if it engrosses it in the manner I could wish, I willingly give up my share of it. I would rather prodesse quam conspici.
Page 246 - He is arranging materials for what, if it be made, will be a most valuable work, under the title of ' Consolations and Comforts,' which will be the very essential oil of metaphysics, fragrant as otto of roses, and useful as wheat, rice, port wine, or any other necessary of human life.
Page vii - Letters have something of that indistinct and headstrong ardour for liberty which a man of genius always catches when he enters the world, and always suffers to cool as he passes forward.
Page xiv - The necessity of complying with times, and of sparing persons, is the great impediment of biography. History may be formed from permanent monuments and records; but Lives can only be written from personal knowledge, which is growing every day less, and in a short time is lost for ever. What is known can seldom be immediately told; and when it might be told, it is no longer known. The delicate features of the mind, the nice discriminations of character, and the minute peculiarities of conduct, are...
Page 257 - is not the season for this country. Coleridge says, and says well, that then it is like a theatre at noon. There are no goings on under a clear sky ; but at other seasons there is such shifting of shades, such islands of light, such columns and buttresses of sunshine, as might almost make a painter burn his brushes, as the sorcerers did their books of magic when they saw the divinity which rested upon the apostles.

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