The American Whig Review, 1 tomas

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Wiley and Putnam, 1845
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145 psl. - Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore: Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!
60 psl. - O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live : Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud ! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth...
480 psl. - Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
145 psl. - But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door ; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore.
143 psl. - And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me— filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "* Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: This it is and nothing more.
177 psl. - Truth crushed to earth, will rise again ; The eternal years of God are hers: But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies amid her worshippers.
480 psl. - Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.
387 psl. - Her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it ; it was that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago ; and the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good ; I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age.
185 psl. - What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ? Let him go, Gertrude ; do not fear our person ; There's such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.
151 psl. - Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.

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