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Agnes Ambleside beauty beneath bird bloom bosom bowers breast breath bright brow Brydges charm cheek child clouds daughter death Donna Anna Dragoons dreams Duke of Alba earth Ev'n eyes fair fancy Fancy's father feel FIELD-FOOT flowers fond GAULS gentle glide golden grace Grasmere grave green grief haunt heard heart Heaven Helvellyn History of Portugal Holmgard hope lady lake light linger live lonely look'd Luttrell Marilia memory mind morn mother mountain never night o'er Oporto pale poem poet praise Quillinan river rocks Rotha Rydal Mount Saint Meinrad seem'd serene shade shine sleep smile song soothed sorrow soul spirit star stream sweet tears tell tender thee thine thou art thought tree trembling trump of doom Twas Val di Noto vale verse voice Wansfell wave wear wert wild wind Windermere wings Wordsworth yonder young youth
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Page xxxi - Quillinau's letters in the winter of 1842-3 appear to have been written in Ambleside, and it was there that he wrote the dialogue between "Walter Savage Landor and the Editor of " Blackwood's Magazine," which was published in " Blackwood " for April, 1843. That paper, which made some noise at the time in literary circles, was provoked by Mr, Landor's paper in the same Magazine, published December, 1842, being an imaginary conversation between Porson and Southey, in which the poetry of Wordsworth...
Page xliii - I want to finish, or it will be of no use to them," meaning his daughters. And yet, though they stood by him also, he knew them not, or was unconscious of their presence. Mr. John Wordsworth, who had himself been very dangerously ill but a short time before, and Mr. William Wordsworth were with him at the time of his death. Mr. Quillinan always spoke and wrote of himself as a Koman Catholic ; and no doubt believed that he was so.
Page xli - There is always some sweetening of the bitterest cup ; it was expected that he would linger perhaps for some weeks, and that his sufferings would be extreme ; but the mercy of God has shortened the agony, and we fondly hope that he did not suffer much pain — that he had not reached that stage of suffering which the medical men apprehended. Last night I was with him for about half an hour up to ten o'clock ; he lay quite still and never spoke, except to call for water, which he often did. " Drink,...
Page 265 - April daisies bloom'd upon her grave, A life broke down that would on hers have lean'd ; And sire to daughter, dust to dust, we gave. In these loved haunts, where all things have a voice That echoes to the bard's inspiring tongue, Where woods and waters in his strain rejoice, " And not a mountain lifts its head unsung," Of Him the Tarns and Meres are eloquent ; The running waters are his chroniclers ; The eternal mountains are his monument. — A few frail hearts and one green mound are hers.
Page 74 - That never fail'd me under darker skies, When subtle wrongs perplex'd me. Her whose eyes Saw light through every wildering maze uncouth. Between those graves a space remains for me : O lay me there, wherever I may be When met by Death's pale angel ; so in peace My dust near theirs may slumber, till the day Of final retribution or release For mortal life's reanimated clay.
Page xxxix - The last evening I was in that neighbourhood, we remained with Mr. "Wordsworth at Rydal Mount till ten o'clock, and when we rose to go, he proposed to accompany us a part of the way. I begged him not to expose himself to the night air, but he seemed to scorn the suggestion that any such care was necessary, and he walked with us.
Page xxxvi - In the December number of the " Quarterly Review" for this year (No. 157) he published an elaborate criticism on the works of Gil Vicente, and the ancient Portuguese drama. This essay is worthy of the pains which he no doubt bestowed upon it. It is elaborate without being prolix or dull ; and full of learning on the subject under discussion, without any tincture of pedantry.
Page 53 - Should perish) murder' d in the public gaze ! Creeds topsy-turvy, statutes in a blaze, And all to deify a will robust ! Tongue-saintly Cromwell in his stalwart clutch Seizes the sceptre, knocks the gilding off, And makes it homely as a grandam's crutch : But woe to the malignants if they scoff At him who wields it ; Oliver, the Man ! Save us from Lord-Protectors Puritan ! * Louis XVI.
Page 2 - His delight it seems to be to put on record Those sun-dyed fancies, airy reveries, Freaks of imagination, waking dreams, Ephemeral fantasies of playful hues, which indeed " fade into nothing if uncropt, and die forgotten ;" but which if seized on while yet fresh In their rich tints of light, and so consigned To the bland pressure of judicious thought And chaste constraint of language, may become Heir-looms for after-times.* This lofty ideal is, however...
Page xlii - Shakespeare, and the dramatic power, perhaps, was not in him ; but he had a grand and tender genius of his own that will live in the heart of his country, and these mountains will be his noblest monument. His life was a long...