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Page 113 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent.
Page 532 - The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms were then to me An appetite: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
Page 337 - This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, — often the surfeit of our own behaviour, — we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars...
Page 272 - ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time ! I...
Page 114 - I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future date of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious.
Page 273 - His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will ; — Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day : For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts.
Page 264 - Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride...
Page 518 - Crime came not near him — she is not the child Of solitude; Health shrank not from him — for Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, Where if men seek her not, and death be more Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled By habit to what their own hearts abhor — In cities caged. The present case in point I Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety...
Page 273 - The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown...