What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
admiration appears Bentley Bishop Hurd Bishop of Gloucester Bishop of Worcester Bishop Warburton character Christian Church Cicero Colchester composition critic Dissertation divine edition editor English Epistle Essay etiam excellent expression extracts favour Fingal Forster genius Georgics Gilbert Wakefield give Greek Halifax honour Horace Hurd Hurd's instance John Johnson Jortin language late Latin Latin language learned Leland Letter Lind literary Lond Lord Lord Mansfield Lowth Markland mind moral nature never object observed occasion opinion Ossian pamphlet Parr Parr's passage perhaps Poems poet poetry Porson Porsonian praise Preface preposition principles published quam Quintilian quod reader reason religion remarks respect Richard Porson says scholar Sermons shew Socinian spirit sublime supposed thing thou thought Tibur tion Tracts translated truth verse Virgil Wakefield Warburton Warburtonian words writings written
Page 164 - God loves from whole to parts : but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake : The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds ; Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; His country next ; and next all human race...
Page 440 - It never through my mind had past The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more ! And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak — thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st...
Page 556 - I have always suspected that the reading is right, which requires many words to prove it wrong ; and the emendation wrong, that cannot without so much labour appear to be right.
Page 441 - Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave, — And I am now alone! I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking, too, of thee; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could...
Page 440 - And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak — thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been.
Page 237 - Warburton has most general, most scholastic learning; Lowth is the more correct scholar. I do not know which of them calls names best." The King was pleased to say he was of the same opinion; adding, "You do not think then, Dr. Johnson, that there was much argument in the case." Johnson said, he did not think there was. "Why truly, (said the King,) when once it comes to calling names, argument is pretty well at an end.
Page 549 - And having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded : for God proved them, and found them worthy for himself.
Page 432 - The oaks of the mountains fall ; the mountains themselves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon herself is lost in heaven ; but thou art for ever the same rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm.
Page 432 - But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end : thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O Sun, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, — the traveller shrinks, in the midst of his journey.
Page 200 - Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys: So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way, Whether in florid impotence he speaks, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad!