The Quarterly Review, Volume 219

Front Cover
William Gifford, Sir John Taylor Coleridge, John Gibson Lockhart, Whitwell Elwin, William Macpherson, William Smith, Sir John Murray IV, Rowland Edmund Prothero (Baron Ernle)
John Murray, 1913
0 Reviews
Reviews aren't verified, but Google checks for and removes fake content when it's identified

From inside the book

What people are saying - Write a review

We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.

Other editions - View all

Common terms and phrases

Popular passages

Page 176 - I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight! When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death...
Page 177 - LEAVE this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil...
Page 242 - ... flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long ! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams : Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret ; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable...
Page 203 - ... fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donee requiescat in te.
Page 175 - DELIVERANCE is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will...
Page 141 - This day, much against my will, I did - in Drury Lane see two or three houses marked with a red cross upon the doors, and
Page 252 - O YOUTH whose hope is high, Who dost to Truth aspire, Whether thou live or die, O look not back nor tire. Thou that art bold to fly Through tempest, flood and fire, Nor dost not shrink to try Thy heart in torments dire : If thou canst Death defy, If thy Faith is entire, Press onward, for thine eye Shall see thy heart's desire.
Page 142 - Lord have mercy upon us!" writ there: which was a sad sight to me, being the first of the kind that, to my remembrance, I ever saw. It put me into an ill conception of myself and my smell, so that I was forced to buy some roll-tobacco to smell to and chaw, which took away the apprehension.
Page 476 - that I have fought my last battle. It is a bad thing to be always fighting. While in the thick of it I am too much occupied to feel anything; but it is wretched just after. It is quite impossible to think of glory. Both mind and feelings are exhausted. I am wretched even at the moment of victory, and I always say that, next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained.
Page 243 - THE clouds have left the sky, The wind hath left the sea, The half-moon up on high Shrinketh her face of dree She lightens on the comb Of leaden waves, that roar And thrust their hurried foam Up on the dusky shore. Behind the western bars The shrouded day retreats, And unperceived the stars Steal to their sovran seats. And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more ; And as I turn me home, My shadow walks before.

Bibliographic information