An Account of Shelley's Visits to France, Switzerland, and Savoy, in the Years 1814 and 1816: With Extracts from "The History of a Six Weeks' Tour" and "Letters Descriptive of a Sail Round the Lake of Geneva and of the Glaciers of Chamouni," First Published in the Year 1817

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Bliss, Sands & Foster, 1894 - 200 pages
This book is about the trips of Percy Bysshe Shelley throughout Europe. He was the husband of Mary Shelley.

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Page 68 - 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 berccau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains.
Page 9 - Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form, where art thou gone ? Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate...
Page 189 - Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.
Page 189 - The wilderness has a mysterious tongue Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, So solemn, so serene, that man may be But for such faith with nature reconciled; Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood By all, but which the wise and great and good Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
Page 73 - Mountains have fallen, Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made Their fountains find another channel — thus, Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg— Why stood I not beneath it ? C.
Page 6 - In the sun's orb, made porous to receive And drink the liquid light ; firm to retain Her gather'd beams, great palace now of light. Hither, as to their fountain, other stars Repairing, in their golden urns draw light...
Page 7 - Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these?
Page 189 - THE everlasting universe of Things Flows through the Mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark — now glittering — now reflecting gloom — Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters — with a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, among the mountains lone, Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.
Page 189 - With which from that detested trance they leap, The works and ways of man, their death and birth, And that of him, and all that his may be, All things that move and breathe, with toil and sound Are born and die, revolve, subside and swell.
Page 43 - The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been, In mockery of man's art...

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