The pacing of the sentinel; or, The soul on duty, by the author of 'Phrenology in relation to the novel, the criticism and the drama'.

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1850 - 63 pagine
 

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Pagina 53 - Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.
Pagina 63 - By the oracles of fame. Scanty fare and decent raiment, Humble lodging, and a fire — These he sought for, These he wrought for, And he gained his meek desire ; Teaching men by written word — Clinging to a hope deferred. " So he lived. At last I missed him ; Still might evening twilight fall, But no taper lit his lattice — Lay no shadow on his wall. In the winter of his seasons, In the midnight of his day, 'Mid his writing, And inditing. Death had beckoned him away, Ere the sentence he had planned...
Pagina 62 - I've asked, debating vainly In the silence of my mind, What the services he rendered To his country or his kind ; Whether tones of ancient music, Or the sound of modern gong, Wisdom holy, Humors lowly, Sermon, essay, novel, song, Or philosophy sublime, Filled the measure of his time.
Pagina 63 - To have flourished and endured ; Meet reward in golden store To have lived for evermore. Who shall tell what schemes majestic Perish in the active brain ? What humanity is robbed of, Ne'er to be restored again ? What we lose, because we honour Overmuch the mighty dead, And dispirit Living merit, Heaping scorn upon its head ? Or perchance, when kinder grown, Leaving it to die—alone?
Pagina 61 - Par beyond the murky midnight, By dim burning of my oil, Filling aye his rapid leaflets, I have watched him at his toil ; Watched his broad and seamy forehead, Watched his white industrious hand, Ever passing And repassing ; Watched and strove to understand What impelled it — gold or fame — Bread, or bubble of a name.
Pagina 61 - Ever o'er his tatter'd curtain, Nightly looking, I could scan, Aye inditing, Writing — writing, The pale figure of a man ; Still discern behind him fall The same shadow on the wall. Far beyond the murky midnight, By dim burning of my oil, Filling aye his rapid leaflets, I have...
Pagina 6 - There is nothing, Sir, too little for so little a creature as man. It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible'.
Pagina 51 - Life, my young friend, is like a game at cards — our hands are alternately good or bad, and the whole seems at first glance to depend on mere chance. But it is not so, for in the long run the skill of the player predominates over the casualties of the game. Therefore, do not be discouraged with the prospect before you, but ply your studies hard, and qualify yourself to receive fortune when she comes your way. I shall have pleasure at any time in hearing from you, and more especially in seeing you.
Pagina 62 - Teaching men by written wordClinging to a hope deferred. So he lived. At last I missed him ; Still might evening twilight fall, But no taper lit his lattice — Lay no shadow on his wall. In the winter of his seasons, In the midnight of his day, 'Mid his writing. And inditing, Death...
Pagina 54 - It is not possible,' says Campbell, ' to read his volume without lamenting that its author should have been either the instrument of bigotry, or the object of persecution.

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