Faust: A Tragedy, Volúmenes1-2

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W. Smith, 1847 - 223 páginas

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Página 193 - tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Página 217 - How am I glutted with conceit of this ! Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all ambiguities, Perform what desperate enterprise I will? I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates...
Página 202 - Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
Página 200 - Eve ! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine ! — From worlds not quickened by the sun A portion of the gift is won ; An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds tread ! in.
Página 191 - Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
Página 222 - SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Página 196 - Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?
Página 221 - Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in, the beauty of a thousand stars...
Página 196 - All murder'd : for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp...
Página 197 - To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods; To tell them that this world did equal theirs Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but naught; Patience is sottish, and impatience does Become a dog that's mad: then is it sin To rush into the secret house of death, Ere death dare come to us?

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