Isabel: Or, Sicily. A Pilgrimage ...

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Lea and Blanchard, 1839 - American fiction - 230 pages

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Page 142 - Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround; Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Page 81 - And Paul said; I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these bonds.
Page 181 - Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough : So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; LXXXVI.
Page 32 - In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! The Arve" and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black...
Page 51 - Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. Point not these mysteries to an Art Lodged above the starry pole ; Pure modulations flowing from the heart Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth With Order dwell, in endless youth ? VIII Oblivion may not cover All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time.
Page 78 - I am here upon the scaffold ! look at me : I am standing on my throne: as proud a one As yon illumined mountain, where the sun Makes his last stand; let him look on me too; He never did behold a spectacle More full of natural glory. Death ie — Ha!
Page 111 - gins to strike. Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is To exercise the single apprehension Where the sums square in proof; But where it happens, that of two sure evils One must be taken, where the heart not wholly Brings itself back from out the strife of duties, There 'tis a blessing to have no election, And blank necessity is grace and favour.
Page 90 - Not that fair field Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain To seek her through the world...
Page 79 - Tell me, slaves, Where is your tyrant ? Let me see him now ; Why stands he hence aloof? Where is your master? What is become of Dionysius ? I would behold and laugh at him ! Dionysius.
Page 33 - BLANC, The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again...

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