Pencillings by the Way, Volumen1

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Página 189 - John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twentyfourth year, on the of 1821 ; and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
Página 190 - And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.
Página 61 - Look once more ere we leave this specular mount Westward, much nearer by south-west, behold Where on the ^Egean shore a city stands Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil ; Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence...
Página 193 - This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who, on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraven on his tombstone : " Here lies one whose name was writ in water...
Página 62 - Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence, native to famous wits Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, City or suburban, studious walks and shades. See there the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; There flowery hill Hymettus, with the sound Of bees...
Página 102 - But what binds us, friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend? Soul-like were those hours of yore: Let us walk in soul once more. Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, — Take, — I give it willingly; For, invisible to thee. Spirits twain have crossed with me.
Página 297 - cried the footman at the bottom of the staircase. " Mr. Moore ! " cried the footman at the top. And with his glass at his eye, stumbling over an ottoman between his nearsightedness and the darkness of the room, enter the poet. Half a glance tells you that he is at home on a carpet. Sliding his little feet up to Lady Blessington...
Página 298 - With the gentlemen, all of whom he knew, he had the frank, merry manner of a confident favorite, and he was greeted like one. He went from one to the other, straining back his head to look up at them (for, singularly enough, every gentleman in the room was six feet...

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