The Reminiscences of a Very Old Man, 1808-1897D. Appleton, 1899 - 297 páginas |
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acquaintance admirable afterwards American arrived artist asked beautiful bells bridge building called canvas character Charles Chestnut Street colour copy corner course daughter door drawing Edgar Allan Poe encaustic paint engraved erected exhibition eyes father feet finished fire front Fund gallery gate Graham hundred interest James McMurtrie John Neagle John Sartain John Varley Kemble Kemble Family knew known lady letter London looked Magazine memory Miss Mortram mother never night noble Ottley painted painter Paris Park Pat Lyon Pennsylvania Academy Philadelphia picture plate portrait possession present published Rebecca Gratz received remember residence Schussele seen side stood Stothard Stuart Sully surprise theatre thing Thomas Thomas Dunn English Thomas Stothard Thomas Sully thought tion told took ture wall Washington Washington Irving West William York young
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Página 204 - For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people - ah, the people They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone They are neither man nor woman They are neither brute nor human They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells!
Página 200 - Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy - an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought - at the true purposes seized only at the last moment - at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view - at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable - at the cautious selections...
Página 203 - Hear the sledges with the bells Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Página 35 - They did promise and vow three things in my name. First, that I should renounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.
Página 288 - For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Página 205 - Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells — Of the bells: 16 Ina sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bellsBells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Página 211 - Because I feel that, in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of "Mother, " Therefore by that dear name I long have called you, You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, In setting my Virginia's spirit free. My mother — my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than...
Página 288 - What then ? Shall we sit idly down and say The night hath come ; it is no longer day ? The night hath not yet come ; we are not quite Cut off from labor by the failing light...
Página 211 - Therefore by that dear name I long have called you You who are more than mother unto me. And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia's spirit free. My mother - my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly. And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
Página 200 - ... a species of fine frenzy — an ecstatic intuition; and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought, at the true purposes seized only at the last moment, at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view, at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable, at the cautious selections and rejections, at the painful erasures and interpolations — in a word, at the...