De Foe's novels. Richardson's novels. Pope as a moralist. Sir Walter Scott. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Balzac's novels. De Quincey

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Side 182 - FATHER of all ! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! Thou great First Cause, least understood, Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind...
Side 144 - Oh let me live my own, and die so too ! (To live and die is all I have to do) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please: Above a patron, though I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
Side 175 - Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. What future bliss, He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To Be blest. The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Side viii - Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book ; he hath not eat paper, as it were ; he hath not drunk ink : his intellect is not replenished ; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts...
Side 228 - No author, without a trial, can conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance about a country where there is no shadow, no antiquity, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but a commonplace prosperity, in broad and simple daylight, as is happily the case with my dear native land.
Side 44 - I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress : My God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, And from the noisome pestilence.
Side 161 - On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
Side 251 - The book, if you would see anything in it, requires to be read in the clear, brown, twilight atmosphere in which it was written; if opened in the sunshine, it is apt to look exceedingly like a volume of blank pages.
Side 151 - Heaven descends, and dance on earth : Gods, imps, and monsters, music, rage, and mirth, A fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball, Till one wide conflagration swallows all.
Side 254 - Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

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