text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id
"I mark thy muse; her gothic lyre
Well suits the legendary lay;
While darting from her eyes of sire
She beams a visionary day:
Bright as the magic torch she early gave
To light thy ven'trous way, through fancy's secret cave.",2011-06-06 03:31:47 UTC,"The muse ""beams a visionary day: / Bright as the magic torch she early gave / To light thy ven'trous way, through fancy's secret cave.""",2005-05-17 00:00:00 UTC,"","",2011-06-05,Impressions,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""impression"" in HDIS (Poetry); found again ""fancy""",15958,6002
"On a shelf,
(Yclept a mantle-piece) a phial stands,
Half fill'd with potent spirits!--spirits strong,
Which sometimes haunt the poet's restless brain,
And fill his mind with fancies whimsical.
Poor poet! happy art thou, thus remov'd
From pride and folly! for in thy domain
Thou can'st command thy subjects; fill thy lines;
Wield th' all-conqu'ring weapon heav'n bestows
On the grey goose's wing! which, tow'ring high,
Bears thy sick fancy to immortal fame!
",2013-10-15 18:05:20 UTC,"""On a shelf, / (Yclept a mantle-piece) a phial stands, / Half fill'd with potent spirits!--haunt the poet's restless brain, / And fill his mind with fancies whimsical.""",2004-06-08 00:00:00 UTC,"","",,"","","Searching ""haunt"" and ""mind"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16030,6045
"A thousand torments wait on love;
The sigh, the tear, the anguish'd groan!
But he who never learnt to prove
A jealous pang, has nothing known.
For jealousy, supreme of woe,
Nurs'd by distorted fancy's pow'r,
Can round the heart bid mis'ry grow,
Which darkens with the ling'ring hour;
While shadows, blanks to reason 's orb,
In dread succession haunt the brain;
And pangs, that ev'ry pang absorb,
In wild convulsive tumults reign.
At morn, at eve, the fever burns,
While phantoms tear the aching breast;
Day brings no calm, and night returns,
But marks no soothing hour of rest.
Nor when the bosom's wasted fires
Are all extinct, is anguish o'er;
For jealousy, which ne'er expires,
Can wound--when passion is no more.
(Cf. Vol. I, p. 290 in 1797 printing)",2013-10-15 18:20:18 UTC,"""While shadows, blanks to reason's orb, / In dread succession haunt the brain""",2005-03-07 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",,"",•INTEREST. REVISIT. Untitled in 1797 printing (embedded in novel).,Searching in HDIS (Poetry),16047,6054
"'Mid the grey horrors of his narrow cell,
The wasted monk is seen. His silv'ry beard
Falls, like Helvetia's snow, half down his breast,
Shading his frozen heart. A torpid spell
Benumbs life's fountain, while the feeble pulse
Marks the slow progress of time's weary course,
With languid circulation. Ev'ry clock
That sounds the passing hour, appears the knell
Which warns him to oblivion. A coarse garb
Hangs round his meagre frame; his hollow cheek,
Shrivell'd with frequent fasting as with age,
Scarce hides his bony jaws. Beneath his cowl,
His dimly-gleaming eyes, sunk in their cells,
And glaz'd with midnight watching, ask of Heav'n
A solitary grave. Poor, breathing ghost!
Tell that still questioner, thy weary mind,
'Twas not for cloister'd, visionary glooms,
For castigation and sequester'd hours,
For cold inanity, life's conscious death,
That nature gave thee strength in busy scenes
To act a nobler part. Misguided monk!
Thou wretched slave of bigotry and fraud!
Was it to gabble o'er a canting tale,
To trim the wasting lamp, to wear away
The flinty pavement with thy wounded knees,
To scourge thy meagre flesh, embrace cold saints,
To starve thy appetites, till ev'ry bone
Shews what a wretched, ghastly thing thou art,
Robb'd of thy outward form? Was it for this
That reason dawn'd upon thy op'ning youth;
And science smil'd, while love, with sportive mein,
Danc'd gaily on, leading expectant joys
Which told thee thou wert man? O! did the spark,
Th' electric spark which kindles fancy's fire,
Ne'er in perspective bright unfold such scenes
As bade thy bosom glow, ambition warm'd,
Or melt in rapt'rous visions? What art thou?
Deluded, sad, forgotten! Like a tree
Plac'd on a blasted desert, where no sun
Visits the sapless trunk, but all around
One gloom perpetual reigns. Where are thy pow'rs?
Where the perception strong, the active mind,
Th' ethereal essence that expands the heart;
The depth of knowledge, and the will to act?
Where is the stamp which marks th' immortal soul,
And places thee above the growling brute?
Shrouded by superstition, chain'd by fear,
Benumb'd by long seclusion from the world;
While naught remains, but a lean, wither'd form,
Inert, enfeebl'd, useless, and debased!
The Indian wild, that roves the pathless steep,
Chasing the famish'd wolf, or savage bear,
Anticipates the hour when to his hut
He drags the bleeding spoil, and shouts, and sings,
In social feasting with his untaught tribes;
The blazing fire encircled, sheds a glow
On the brown cheek, and gilds the gloomy hour
Of wint'ry desolation!--O'er his hut,
Scoop'd in the snowy ridge or flinty rock,
The blast howls horrible, while the gaunt beast,
That roves for prey, fills up the sullen pause
With yell'd defiance.--On the distant shore
The white surge dashes, with a fateful sound,
While the wreck'd mariner the slipp'ry steep
Climbs desperately bold. List'ning he hears
The deaf'ning din of elements combin'd;
Where clouds embattled mingle; while beneath
Waves roll on waves, curling their tyrant heads
In wild fantastic fury. From the cliff
The sea-bird screams, while the half-shrouded moon
Throws its dim light upon the world below,
Frozen and desolate. Yet ev'n there
Man is the friend of man! While the rude grasp,
The deaf'ning war-hoop, or the uncouth garb,
Shews, with fantastic gestures, the caprice
Of ever-varying nature. But, for thee,
O solitary monk! no cheerful hour
Shall mark the summer morn, or deck the wing
Of time with sunny lustre! all, yes all,
To thee shall seem a blank; a dreadful blank,
Veiling the face of nature, while her voice
Whispers reproof; reproof that will be heard
Ev'n in the cloister's melancholy shade;
Till death shall close the tablet of thy fate,
Nor leave one friend, to pity or to praise.
Explore the dungeon's gloom, where, all alone,
The homicide expires; the guilty wretch,
Whose hands are steep'd in gore; whose timid soul,
The mild and pitying angel, hope, forsakes,
While all the demons of despair and hell
Howl in his startled ears! His weary hours
Have many a season pass'd, since to his cheek
The breeze of heav'n gave freshness; since his lip
Imbib'd th' ethereal spirit of the morn,
Or balmy sleep, the opiate of the mind,
Lull'd the sick sense of sorrow. If his brain
Snatches a transitory dream of peace;
If, wearied by perpetual, painful thought,
A short, but broken slumber fills the throne
Of tott'ring intellect: sudden and fierce
Some shriek appalling, or some spectre dire,
Taunts him to waking madness, and again
The mental fever rages! Down his cheek
The scalding tear rolls fast. His bloodshot eyes
Glare motionless and wide, as if their sense
Turn'd inward on his soul. His quiv'ring lip,
Drain'd of the life-stream by the conscious fiend,
Mutters a brief appeal to angry heav'n,
Then freezes into death. No friendly hand
Closes the beamless eye: no kindred breast
Sustains the livid cheek, grief-worn and mark'd
With water-fretted channels. His bow'd head,
Silver'd by sorrow in the prime and pride
Of lusty youth, shews like a goodly tree,
Frost-nipp'd and drooping. Wretched homicide!
Whom did he kill? The minion of his foe;
The sordid Steward, whose infuriate rage
Snatch'd from his helpless babes the well-earn'd store
Of many a toilsome hour; the pamper'd slave,
Whose mind, grown callous by oppression's task,
Repell'd compunctuous pity.--Ask thy heart,
Divine philanthropist! who rais'd his hand
Against the caitiff's life? The caitiff's self!
The petty tyrant, who with barb'rous wrongs
Propell'd him on to sin. For reason's breast,
Arm'd 'gainst oppression, in resistance strong,
Can combat giant fierceness; and tho' oft
By subtle malice vanquish'd or betray'd,
Still owns the plea of nature! In his low cell
The patient child of persecution sits,
Pensively sad. His uncomplaining tongue,
His stedfast eye, his lean and pallid cheek,
Grac'd with the stamp of dignified disdain,
Wait the approach of death. No haggard glance
Ruffles the placid orb, whose lustre, dimm'd
By dungeon vapours, like a dewy star,
Gleams 'midst surrounding darkness. On his lip
Smiles innocence, enthron'd in modest pride,
And eloquently silent! On his breast
His folded arms (shielding his guiltless heart
From the damp poisons of a living grave),
Are firmly interwoven; while his soul,
Calm as the martyr at the kindling pyre,
Holds strong with resignation. Who will now
Breathe the contagious mischiefs of his cell?
Who quit the gorgeous splendours of the sun,
To watch with him the slowly-wasting lamp,
Dim with obtrusive vapours? Who will share
The bread of misery, and with the breath
Of sympathy more palatable make
The cup of human sorrow? Who resign
The midnight revelry of happier scenes,
Turn from the banquet and illumin'd hall,
The throne of flaunting beauty, gaily deck'd,
The costly shews of life, to count with him
The silent hours of anguish? Tell, O truth!
Thou heav'n-descended judge! what has he done?
Has he refus'd to bend the flexile knee
Before the blood-stain'd foot of ruthless pow'r?
To fawn upon the bloated, lordly fool,
Who claim'd his vassalage? Has he refus'd
To load the groaning altars of the church;
Libell'd, by truth, some wanton, courtly dame;
Or, like an arrogant, rebellious knave,
Dar'd talk of freedom? Say, O vengeful man!
Are these thy destin'd victims? Is it thus
Thou deal'st the meed of justice? Dost thou think
Thy petty rage will sever them from him,
Whose attribute is mercy, and whose grace
Mocks all distinctions? O! let nature speak,
And with instinctive force inform thy soul,
That liberty, the choicest boon of heav'n,
Is reason's birth-right, and the gift of God!",2012-01-09 18:26:07 UTC,"""Where is the stamp which marks th' immortal soul, / And places thee above the growling brute?""",2005-04-08 00:00:00 UTC,"Final Stanzas.
The ""sweet Urchin"" is Love.","",,"","","Searching ""soul"" and ""stamp"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16053,6058
"Oft have I seen yon solitary man
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow
Sits melancholy, mark'd with decent pride,
As it would fly the busy taunting world,
And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near
The foot of an old tree, he takes his seat,
And with the page of legendary lore
Cheats the dull hour, while Evening's sober eye
Looks tearful as it closes. In the dell
By the swift brook he loiters, sad and mute,
Save when a struggling sigh, half murmur'd, steals
From his wrung bosom. To the rising Moon,
His eye rais'd wistfully, expression fraught,
He pours the cherish'd anguish of his soul,
Silent, yet eloquent: For not a sound
That might alarm the night's lone centinel,
The dull-ey'd Owl, escapes his trembling lip,
Unapt in supplication. He is young,
And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth,
That all its fires are faded. What is He?
And why, when morning sails upon the breeze,
Fanning the blue hill's summit, does he stay
Loit'ring and sullen, like a truant boy,
Beside the woodland glen; or stretch'd along
On the green slope, watch his slow wasting form
Reflected, trembling, on the river's breast?",2009-09-14 19:45:33 UTC,"""He is young, / And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth, / That all its fires are faded""",2005-04-09 00:00:00 UTC,"","",,"","","Searching ""stamp"" and ""thought"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16054,6059
"Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at all tranquillized, before she had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been different; but after another three or four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message--no symptom of a softened heart--no hope of advantage from separation--her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self-revenge could give.
(II.iii, p. 139)",2011-06-09 20:34:02 UTC,"""[H]er mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self-revenge could give.""",2011-06-09 20:34:02 UTC,"Volume II, Chapter iii","",,"","","Searching ""mind"" in HDIS (Austen)",18634,6936
"Edmund could not but agree to it. ""Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest mind!--for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner; it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.""
Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, ""If you only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser. Do not ask advice of me. I am not competent.""
(II.ix, p. 184)",2011-06-09 20:41:41 UTC,"""They have injured the finest mind!--for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner; it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.""",2011-06-09 20:41:41 UTC,"Volume II, Chapter ix","",,"","","Searching ""mind"" in HDIS (Austen)",18637,6936
"While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was soon after tea called out of the room; an occurrence too common to strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler re-appeared ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, ""Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, Ma'am, in his own room."" Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, ""Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about?--where are you going?--don't be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it is not you that are wanted; depend upon it it is me; (looking at the butler) but you are so very eager to put yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss Price.""
(III.i, p. 220)",2011-06-09 20:45:30 UTC,"""Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks.""",2011-06-09 20:45:30 UTC,"Volume III, Chapter i",Free Indirect Discourse,,"","Lots of crossings and rushings and enterings and lingerings in Austen. These precede FID, often: signaling the rush, flutter, tumult and then performing it.","Searching ""mind"" in HDIS (Austen)",18638,6936
"Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now, at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary's next letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she was not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great relief to herself.--Here was another strange revolution of mind!--She was really glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present exile from good society, and distance from every thing that had been wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her heart lived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was thoroughly acceptable.--The usual plea of increasing engagements was made in excuse for not having written to her earlier, ""and now that I have begun,"" she continued, ""my letter will not be worth your reading, for there will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or four lines passionées from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or perhaps he only pretended the call, for the sake of being travelling at the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the by, his absence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister's in writing, for there has been no ""well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?--is not it time for you to write to Fanny?"" to spur me on. At last, after various attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, ""dear Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth;"" they found me at home yesterday, and we were glad to see each other again. We seemed very glad to see each other, and I do really think we were a little.--We had a vast deal to say.--Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? I did not use to think her wanting in self possession, but she had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of. There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke of ""Fanny"", and spoke of her as a sister should.--But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th.--Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelles's, and prefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly she will then feel -- to use a vulgar phrase--that she has got her penny-worth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well she may, with moving the queen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the back ground, and as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never force your name upon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. -- From all that I hear and guess, Baron Wildenhaim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has any serious encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the case, for, take away his rants, and the poor Baron has nothing. What a difference a vowel makes! -- if his rents were but equal to his rants!--Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a young one. Adieu, my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London; write me a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry's eyes, when he comes back -- and send me an account of all the dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake.""
(III.ix, pp. 267-8)",2011-06-09 20:55:54 UTC,"""Here was another strange revolution of mind!""",2011-06-09 20:52:53 UTC,"Volume III, Chapter ix","",,"","","Searching ""mind"" in HDIS (Austen)",18640,6936
"""These tasks befit the rugged sons of toil,""
Cries speculative Pride with scornful smile,
""While they in ignorance and darkness grope,
""And labour on, and talk of faith and hope;
""Far nobler labours aid us to extol
""The task of minds, the labour of the soul.
""To trace French novelists with steady gaze,
""Through sentiment's inexplicable maze;
""Whose evanescent meaning caught meanwhile,
""Shall add new graces to enrich our style;
""New systems of philosophy be shown,
""With happier art in language all our own;
""New modes, new governments, new laws, new light,
""Shall put all superstition's train to flight;
""And revelation's trembling, dubious ray,
""No more its faint, uncertain beams display;
""But knowledge flash with such resplendent blaze,
""That maddening crowds grow giddy while they gaze.
""Such are our triumphs, while at ease reclin'd,
""With active force the comprehensive mind
""Breaks custom's chains and prejudice's ties,
""And wide in sportive curves unbounded flies.""",2011-07-14 20:12:37 UTC,"""With active force the comprehensive mind / Breaks custom's chains and prejudice's ties, / And wide in sportive curves unbounded flies.""",2011-07-14 20:11:56 UTC,"","",,Fetters,"","Searching ""mind"" and ""chain"" in HDIS (Poetry)",18870,6085