The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20

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Atlantic Monthly Company, 1867 - American literature
 

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Page 579 - I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame.
Page 179 - Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers, that, with his tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you, and being an absolute Johannes factotum is, in his own conceit, the only Shake-scene in a country.
Page 369 - BY the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; — Under the one, the Blue ; Under the other, the Gray.
Page 48 - ... clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return — a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
Page 156 - SWEET hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer, That calls me from a world of care. And bids me, at my Father's throne. Make all my wants and wishes known ! In seasons of distress and grief, My soul has often found relief, And oft escaped the tempter's snare, By thy return, sweet hour of prayer.
Page 599 - Who in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion, Tell love it is but lust, Tell time it is but motion, Tell flesh it is but dust : And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.
Page 179 - Shakespeare's poems the creative power and the intellectual energy wrestle as in a war embrace. Each in its excess of strength seems to threaten the extinction of the other. At length in the drama they were reconciled, and fought each with its shield before the breast of the other.
Page 370 - Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray.
Page 579 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent.
Page 625 - From Paul's I went, to Eton sent, To learn straightways the Latin phrase, Where fifty-three stripes given to me At once I had. For fault but small, or none at all, It came to pass thus beat I was; See, Udal, see the mercy of thee To me, poor lad.

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