Literary Remains of the Late William Hazlitt: Essays: On self-love. On the conduct of life: or, Advice to a school-boy. On the fine arts. The fight. On want of money. On the feeling of immortality in youth. The main-chance. The opera. Of persons one would wish to have seen. My first acquaintance with poets. The shyness of scholars. The Vatican. On the spirit of monarchy

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Saunders and Otley, 1836 - 315 pages
 

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Page 404 - Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height.
Page 212 - Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream : The genius, and the mortal instruments, Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
Page 403 - In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility : 5 But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger...
Page 361 - A poet and a philosopher getting up into a Unitarian pulpit to preach the Gospel, was a romance in these degenerate days, a sort of revival of the primitive spirit of Christianity, which was not to be resisted.
Page 364 - ... the cold dank drops of dew, that hung half melted on the beard of the thistle, had something genial and refreshing in them ; for there was a spirit of hope and youth in all nature, that turned every thing into good.
Page 451 - Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods; Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust; Such as the souls of cowards might conceive, And, form'd like tyrants, tyrants would believe.
Page 342 - Where Murray (long enough his country's pride) Shall be no more than Tully or than Hyde...
Page 217 - I never saw anything more terrific than his aspect just before he fell. All traces of life, of natural expression, were gone from him. His face was like a human skull, a death's head, spouting blood. The eyes were filled with blood, the nose streamed with blood, the mouth gaped blood. He was not like an actual man, but like a preternatural, spectral appearance, or like one of the figures in Dante's Inferno.
Page 270 - On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th...
Page 83 - Still green with bays each ancient altar stands Above the reach of sacrilegious hands, Secure from flames, from Envy's fiercer rage, Destructive war, and all-involving Age. See from each clime the learn'd their incense bring ! Hear in all tongues consenting paeans ring!

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