On the Study of Celtic Literature |
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admirable antiquity arkite bards basis beauty Book Brithi Britons called Celt Celt-haters Celt-lover Celt's Celtic element Celtic genius Celtic literature Celtic nature Celtic race Celtism Ceridwen charm civilisation clear criticism Cymri doubt Eisteddfod emotion England English nature Englishman Eugene O'Curry feeling French Gael genuine German nature German poetry give Goethe Greek Gwydion handling nature Indo-European Ireland land Latin Latinised literary Llandudno Llywarch Llywarch Hen look Lord Strangford Mabinogion manuscripts matter mediæval ment modern Nash Nash's nation natural magic Neustria Norman Ossian passion perception Philistinism philology plastic arts poem poet poetical power of style prose quick quoted rhetoric Roman Saxon seems Semitic sense and sturdy sentiment Shakspeare's sixth century speech spirit story Strangford sturdy morality Taliesin temperament Teutonic things tion Titanism traces tradition twelfth Wales Welsh and Irish Welsh language Welsh literature Welsh poetry word Zeuss
Popular passages
Page 168 - The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise ; in such a night, Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night.
Page 157 - What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome?
Page 167 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine...
Page 168 - These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Page 156 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys, Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile!
Page 168 - In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismay'd away. LOR. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
Page 104 - The Celt has not produced great poetical works, he has only produced poetry with an air of greatness investing it all, and sometimes giving, moreover, to short pieces, or to passages, lines, and snatches of long pieces, singular beauty and power.
Page 160 - More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain.
Page 56 - And the Salmon took Arthur's messengers on his shoulders up to the wall of the prison in Gloucester, and they delivered Mabon. Nothing could better give that sense of primitive and...
Page 136 - Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Character in dem Strom der Welt.