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ADRIANA AESWYN amongst arms ARTEVELDE Artevelde's BOSCH bring Bruges BULSEN BURGHER BURGOMASTER CAPTAIN CECILE CLARA Constable D'ARLON death deem DUKE OF BOURBON DUKE OF BURGUNDY Earl of Flanders ELENA Enter Exeunt Exit FATHER JOHN Flemish FLEUREANT OF HEURLÉE France FRIAR friends Ghent GILBERT MATTHEW give grace hand hath hear heard heart KING KORTZ lady live look Lord of Arlon Lord of Occo market-place master mind MUCK never night OLIVER OF CLISSON Oudenarde pardon pass peace Philip PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE RAOUL OF RANEVAL ROOSDYK SCENE Scheldt SIR FLEUREANT SIR GUISEBERT GRUTT SIR OLIVER SIR RAOUL SIR SIMON BETTE sleep soul speak stand STEENSEL STOCKENSTROM sword tell thee There's thine things thou hast thought to-morrow town TRISTRAM OF LESTOVET VAN DEN BOSCH VAN MUCK VAN RYK VAUCLAIRE wherefore whilst White-Hoods WOMAN word Ypres
Page xv - That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.
Page 226 - Writers, however, whose appeal is made so exclusively to the excitabilities of mankind, will not find it possible to work upon them continuously without a diminishing effect. Poetry of which sense is not the basis, though it may be excellent of its kind, will not long be reputed to be poetry of the highest order. It may move the feelings and charm the fancy; but failing to satisfy the understanding, it will not take permanent possession of the strong-holds of fame.
Page 4 - ... fruit thereof is uncertain, and consequently no culture of the earth, no navigation nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea, no commodious building, no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force, no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time, no arts, no letters, no society, and, which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death, and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
Page 85 - No vital chord nor troubled what she loved, Philosophy might look her in the face, And like a hermit stooping to the well That yields him sweet refreshment, might therein See but his own serenity reflected With a more heavenly tenderness of hue ! Yet whilst the world's ambitious empty cares, Its small disquietudes and insect stings, Disturb'd her never, she was one made up Of feminine affections, and her life Was one full stream of love from fount to sea.
Page 225 - The elastic force no burthen ere could bow, The various talents and the single mind, Which give him moral power and mastery o'er mankind. His sixty summers — what are they in truth ? By Providence peculiarly blest, With him the strong hilarity of youth Abides, despite grey hairs, a constant guest. His sun has veered a point toward the west, But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet ; That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best, Where truth and manly tenderness are met With faith and heavenward...
Page 169 - There lies a sleeping city, God of dreams ! What an unreal and fantastic world Is going on below ! Within the sweep of yon encircling wall How many a large creation of the night, Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, Peopled with busy, transitory groups, Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd.
Page 64 - s ne'er a one in dangerous times, Who wins the race of glory, but than him A thousand men more gloriously endowed Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand others Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance, Whilst lighter barks pushed past them ; to whom add A smaller tally, of the singular few, Who, gifted with predominating powers, Bear yet a temperate will, and keep the peace. The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
Page 186 - Appeared all blood, and swelled and weltered sore, And midmost in the eddy and the whirl My own face saw I, which was pale and calm As death could make it : — then the vision passed, And I perceived the river and the bridge, The mottled sky and horizontal moon, The distant camp, and all things as they were.
Page xi - Had he united a philosophical intellect to his peculiarly poetical temperament, he would probably have been the greatest poet of his age. But no man can be a very great poet who is not also a great philosopher. Whatever Lord Byron's natural powers may have been, idleness and light reading, an early acquisition of popularity by the exercise of a single talent, and an absorbing and contracting self-love, confined the field of his operations within narrow limits. He was in knowledge merely a man of...
Page 74 - t is ignoble to have led my life In idle meditations — that the times Demand me, that they call my father's name. Oh ! what a fiery heart was his ! such souls Whose sudden visitations daze the world, Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind A voice that in the distance far away Wakens the slumbering ages.