Shelley: The Man and the Poet, 1. ciltWard and Downey, 1888 |
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acquaintance addressed admiration afterwards appeared Atheism beauty become Boinville Bracknell Brentford Byron Catholic Emancipation character charm cousin daughter delighted Dowden Dublin Eliza eloquent endeavoured English enthusiastic Essay Eton eyes father favourite feelings Field Place friendship genius girl Godwin happiness Harriet Harriet Westbrook heart Hogg's human Ianthe ideal imagination intellect Ireland Irish Irvyne Jeaffreson Keswick lady Laon Laon and Cythna letter liberty London Lynmouth mankind Mary Mary Wollstonecraft Matilda Maurice Bouchor Medwin mind Miss Hitchener moral nature never novel Oxford passion Percy Bysshe Shelley Percy Shelley philosophy poems poet poet's poetical poetry poor Queen Mab religious romantic Rosicrucian says Hogg seemed Shelley's sister soul Southey spirit strange Street thou thought tion Verezzi verse voice walk Wandering Jew Westbrook William Godwin woman words writes written wrote young youth Zastrozzi Zofloya
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Sayfa 19 - I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep : a fresh May-dawn it was, When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, And wept, I knew not why: until there rose From the near schoolroom voices that, alas ! Were but one echo from a world of woes — The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.
Sayfa 19 - Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground — So without shame, I spake : — " I will be wise, And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannise Without reproach or check.
Sayfa 46 - Elegy," of which he was very fond. I was myself far too young to form any estimate of character, but I loved Shelley for his kindliness and affectionate ways. He was not made to endure the rough and boisterous pastime at Eton, and his shy and gentle nature was glad to escape far away, to muse over strange fancies, for his mind was reflective and teeming with deep thought. His lessons were child's play to him, and his power of Latin versification marvellous. I think I remember some long work he had...
Sayfa 276 - But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever...
Sayfa 282 - The subtle and benignant enchantress writes to Hogg, April 18: "Shelley is again a widower; his beauteous half went to town on Thursday." Then Shelley writes a poem — a chant of grief over the hard fate which obliges him now to leave his paradise and take up with his wife again. It seems to intimate that the paradise is cooling...
Sayfa 221 - No man has a right to be respected for any other possessions, but those of virtue and talents. Titles are tinsel, power a corruptor, glory a bubble, and excessive wealth, a libel on its possessor.
Sayfa 284 - And by a slight endurance seal A fellow-being's lasting weal. For pale with anguish is his cheek, His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim, Thy name is struggling ere he speak, Weak is each trembling limb; In mercy let him not endure The misery of a fatal cure.
Sayfa 117 - The mode of operation was this : he enclosed a copy in a letter and sent it by the post, stating, with modesty and simplicity, that he had met accidentally with that little tract, which appeared unhappily to be quite unanswerable. Unless the fish was too sluggish to take the bait, an answer of refutation was forwarded to an appointed address in London, and then, in a vigorous reply, he would fall upon the unwary disputant and break his bones.
Sayfa 144 - O thou Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path Which this lone spirit travelled, drear and cold, Yet swiftly leading to those awful limits Which mark the bounds of Time and of the space When Time shall be no more ; wilt thou not turn Those spirit-beaming eyes and look on me, Until I be assured that Earth is Heaven, And Heaven is Earth...
Sayfa 276 - My friend, you are happier than I. You have the pleasures as well as the pains of sensibility. I have sunk into a premature old age of exhaustion, which renders me dead to everything but the unenviable capacity of indulging the vanity of hope, and a terrible susceptibility to objects of disgust and hatred.