text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id
"You do yourself injustice, my friend. I think I see your most secret thoughts; and these, instead of exciting anger or contempt, only awaken compassion and tenderness. You love; and must, therefore, conceive my conduct to be perverse and cruel. I counted on your harboring such thoughts. Time only and reflection will enable you to see my motives in their true light. Hereafter you will recollect my words, and find them sufficient to justify my conduct. You will acknowledge the propriety of my engaging in the cares o fthe world, before I sit down in retirement and ease.
(Part II, chapter 9, p. 494)",2009-09-14 19:44:48 UTC,One's thoughts may be visible to another,2003-07-21 00:00:00 UTC,Mervyn talks with Eliza,"",,"",•See also below. Thoughts are harbored. ,Reading,15830,5960
"ELIZA.
Yes, my beloved Sidney! I shall once more rejoin thee, and share thy fate--perhaps effect thy rescue.
[Song.--Eliza.]
With trembling steps and sinking heart
I urge my weary way;
At every whispering breeze I start,
All terror and dismay.
Still Hope, with magic mirror tries
My sinking heart to cheer,
And points where smiling prospects rise
Of many a circling year.
Or when the sandy desart bright
Reflects the burning noon,
Or when the chilling damps of night
Arise and dim the moon.
Still Hope, &c.",2009-09-14 19:44:57 UTC,"""Still Hope, with magic mirror tries / My sinking heart to cheer, / And points where smiling prospects rise / Of many a circling year""",2005-11-30 00:00:00 UTC,"Act I, Scene ii","",,"","","Searching ""heart"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Drama)",15873,5967
"Hampton! 'tis thus thy scenes I view,
In Time and Mem'ry's mirror true.
Thy walnut-shade deep thought supplies,
Thy very ruins school the Wise;
And in thy solemn walks is seen,
Tho' cut thro' one unvarying green,
Calm Comtemplation,--Virtue's Friend,--
The Soul at once to move and mend.",2011-07-19 18:55:54 UTC,"""Hampton! 'tis thus thy scenes I view, / In Time and Mem'ry's mirror true.""",2005-11-26 00:00:00 UTC,"","",,"","","Searching ""mirror"" and ""thought"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16024,6040
"When a few moons (heav'n grant the lot!) have shed
Their ripening lustre o'er thine infant head;
And Shakespear's page, my Lucy, shall unroll
To thy rapt sight the mirror of the soul;
There, 'mid his scenes with thousand colours fraught,
Old Adam shall enchant thy wond'ring thought.
Such was the man, who bad thy mother bear
This small memorial to thy future care:
From youth to age her grateful house he serv'd,
Nor from strict Virtue's path a moment swerv'd.
When life's dark winter, as it 'gan to lower,
Blasted his sight, and bound up every power
For active good, yet many a lengthen'd day
With meek content he smil'd beneath its sway;
And still with kindest thoughts his time beguil'd,
And blest the race, for whom he once had toil'd:
Till ninety years being past in measure even,
He sail'd with conscious triumph up to heaven.",2009-09-14 19:45:42 UTC,"""Shakespear's page, my Lucy, shall unroll / To thy rapt sight the mirror of the soul""",2005-10-23 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",,"","","Searching ""mind"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16094,6082
"Then cease, my Friend, thy fond complaint;
Resume thy mirth and humour quaint,
Let us awhile divert our spleen,
Recall the gay, the cheerful scene;
Awhile in Fancy's mirror trace
The social night, the joyous chase;
Let us of ---'s trophies sing,
How he the fox was wont to sting,
While you, when all the hounds were gone,
With boots too short, no stocking on,
Sick, and with midnight supper cramm'd,
All huntsmen, dogs, and foxes d-m-'d;
Yet still unwilling to submit,
Kept spurring on your jaded tit:
Thy image still provokes my smiles,
And many a serious thought beguiles,
No time, my Berney, can efface
The record of thy queer grimace.
Yet, though these joyous hours be past,
Let's catch the present while they last,
And ever through each varying scene
Calm be the soul, the mind serene;
Let not lost friends augment thy pain,
But think on those who still remain:
And of that number be the bard,
Who sends this tribute of regard,
And trims once more his withering bays,
To cheer thee with his faithful lays.",2009-09-14 19:45:47 UTC,"""Let us awhile divert our spleen, / Recall the gay, the cheerful scene; /Awhile in Fancy's mirror trace / The social night, the joyous chase""",2005-11-26 00:00:00 UTC,"","",,"","","Searching ""fancy"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16115,6090
"See'st thou yon girl quick dancing by,
Chacing the painted butterfly,
Unconscious of her power;
Little she recks of lover's sigh,
But sports away the hour.
Dwells Beauty in that frolic grace,
That airy bound, that playful race;
In look now saucy, and now meek;
In modesty's soft blushing cheek;
Now graceful woman, coy and mild,
Now all that charms us in the child?
Her hazle eye, unfix'd and bright,
Dazzles with ever-changing light,
Like flames toss'd by the wind;
Now swimming in quick-passing sadness,
Now laughing in her soul's pure gladness,
The mirror of her mind:
Her lips,--the smiles those lips that curl
Twin cherries seem to sever;
And those two rows of living pearl
Has Ceylon rival'd never.
She shakes her head, to clear the hair
That clusters o'er her brow so fair;
And the quick motion wakes the grace
That dimples o'er that playful face;
Her lightning glance, her blush, her smile,
Would force old age to gaze awhile,
Would misery's sigh repress:
None can define the witching spell;
If it be Beauty none can tell;
All feel 'tis loveliness.--
And what is Beauty but the power
To steal the soul away?
And what so fair as Beauty's flower,
Lit, Genius, by thy ray?",2009-09-14 19:46:00 UTC,"""Her hazle eye, unfix'd and bright, / Dazzles with ever-changing light, / Like flames toss'd by the wind; / Now swimming in quick-passing sadness, / Now laughing in her soul's pure gladness, / The mirror of her mind""",2005-10-10 00:00:00 UTC,"","",,"","","Searching ""mind"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Poetry); found again ""soul""",16192,6138
"Son of Sirach.
To my soul let my friend be a mirror as true,
Thus my faults from all others conceal;
Nor, absent, those failings or follies renew,
Which from Heaven and from man he should veil.",2009-09-14 19:46:00 UTC,"""To my soul let my friend be a mirror as true, / Thus my faults from all others conceal""",2005-12-14 00:00:00 UTC,Sonnets,"",,"","","Searching ""soul"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (c19 Poetry)",16193,6139
"The eye, which speaks the soul divine,
The face, which shews the nobler mind,
As on the mirror living objects shine,
In earth or heavens, what beams there so refin'd?",2009-09-14 19:46:02 UTC,"""The eye, which speaks the soul divine, / The face, which shews the nobler mind, / As on the mirror living objects shine, / In earth or heavens, what beams there so refin'd?""",2005-10-10 00:00:00 UTC,Odes. Book the Third.,"",,"","","Searching ""mind"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Poetry)",16207,6149
"To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to these sympathies in which without any other discipline than that of our daily life we are fitted to take delight, the Poet principally directs his attention. He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to each other, and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting qualities of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by this feeling of pleasure which accompanies him through the whole course of his studies, converses with general nature with affections akin to those, which, through labour and length of time, the Man of Science has raised up in himself, by conversing with those particular parts of nature which are the objects of his studies. The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of Science is pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance; the other is a personal and individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, ""that he looks before and after."" He is the rock of defence of human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying every where with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are every where; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favorite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge -- it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of men of Science should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present, but he will be ready to follow the steps of the man of Science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the Poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of these respective Sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man. -- It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will break in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments, and endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the assumed meanness of his subject.
(pp. xxxvi-xxxix)",2011-12-02 15:59:40 UTC,"""He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to each other, and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting properties of nature.""",2009-02-10 00:00:00 UTC,Preface,"",2011-12-02,Optics,"",Reading,17245,6480
"Superstition! more destructive still
Than plague or famine, tyranny or war!
Thou palsying mischief, thou benumbing foe
To all the proudest energies of man!
Whence springs thy subtle desolating charm,
From pompous pageantry and bigot pride,
From mitred canopies, and shrines of gold,
And bones of mould'ring monks? Can freezing nights,
In cells where cold inanity presides,
Cloath'd in religion's meek and sainted guise,
Or long-drawn pageantry of empty show,
Conceal the trembling soul, from that dread pow'r
Which marks th' All-seeing! On Italia's shores,
On every plain, on ev'ry mountain top,
The voice of nature speaks, in mighty sounds,
To bid thee tremble! Then, O! nature, say--
Shall rich Italia's bow'rs, her citron shades,
Her vales prolific, mountains golden clad,
And rivers fring'd with nectar-teeming groves,
Re-echo with the mighty song of praise
To empyrean space, while shackled still
The man of colour dies? Shall torrid suns
Shoot downward their hot beams on mis'ry's race,
And call forth luxuries to pamper pride,
Steep'd in the Ethiop's tears, the Ethiop's blood!
Shall the caprice of nature, the deep tint
Of sultry climes, the feature varying,
Or the uncultur'd mind, endure the scourge
Of sordid tyranny, or heap the stores
Of his fair fellow man, whose ruddy cheek
Knows not the tear of pity; whose white breast
Conceals a heart, than adamant more hard,
More cruel than the tiger's! Bend thy gaze
O! happy offspring of a temper'd clime,
On whom the partial hand of nature set
The stamp of bloomy tints, proportions fine,
Unmixing with the goodly outside shew
The mind appropriate; bend thy pitying gaze
To Zembla's frozen sphere; where in his hut,
Roof'd by the rocky steep, the savage smiles,
In conscious freedom smiles, and mocks the storm
That howls along the sky. Th' unshackled limb,
Cloth'd in the shaggy hide of uncouth bear,
Or the fleet mountain elk, bounds o'er the cliff
The free-born tenant of the desert wild.
The glow of liberty, thro' ev'ry vein
Bids sensate streams revolve; the dusky path
Of midnight solitudes no terror brings,
Because he fears no lord. The prowling wolf,
Whose eye-balls redden 'midst the world of gloom,
Yells fierce defiance, form'd by nature's law
To share the desert's freedom. O'er the sky
The despot darkness reigns, in sullen pride,
Half the devoted year. His ebon wing
O'ershadows the blank space: his chilling breath
Benumbs the breast of nature; on his brow,
Myriads of stars with lucid lustre gem
His boundless diadem! The savage cheek
Smiles at the potent spoiler; braves his frown;
And while the partial gloom is most opake,
Still vaunts the mind unfetter'd! If for these
Indulgent nature breaks the bonds of woe,
Gilding the deepest solitudes of night
With the pure flame of liberty sublime;
If for the untaught sons of gelid climes,
Health cheers the darkest hour with vig'rous age,
Shall the poor African, the passive slave,
Born in the bland effulgence of broad day,
Cherish'd by torrid splendours, while around
The plains prolific teem with honey'd stores
Of Afric's burning soil; shall such a wretch
Sink prematurely to a grave obscure,
No tear to grace his ashes? Or suspire,
To wear submission's long and goading chain,
To drink the tear, that down his swarthy cheek
Flows fast, to moisten his toil-fever'd lip,
Parch'd by the noontide blaze? Shall he endure
The frequent lash, the agonizing scourge,
The day of labour, and the night of pain;
Expose his naked limbs to burning gales;
Faint in the sun, and wither in the storm;
Traverse hot sands, imbibe the morbid breeze,
Wing'd with contagion, while his blister'd feet,
Scorch'd by the vertical and raging beam,
Pour the swift life-stream? Shall his frenzied eyes,
Oh! worst of mortal miseries! behold
The darling of his soul, his sable love,
Selected from the trembling, timid throng
By the wan tyrant, whose licentious touch
Seals the dark fiat of the slave's despair!
Humanity! from thee the suppliant claims
The meed of retribution! Thy pure flame
Would light the sense opake, and warm the spring
Of boundless ecstacy; while nature's laws
So violated, plead, immortal-tongu'd,
For her dark-fated children; lead them forth
From bondage infamous! Bid reason own
The dignities of man, whate'er his clime,
Estate, or colour. And, O! sacred truth!
Tell the proud lords of traffic, that the breast
Thrice ebon-tinted, bears a crimson tide,
As pure, as clear as Europe's sons can boast.
Then, liberty, extend thy thund'ring voice
To Afric's scorching climes, o'er seas that bound
To bear the blissful tidings, while all earth
Shall hail humanity! the child of heav'n!",2012-01-09 18:38:53 UTC,"""Thy pure flame / Would light the sense opake, and warm the spring / Of boundless ecstacy; while nature's laws / So violated, plead, immortal-tongu'd, / For her dark-fated children; lead them forth / From bondage infamous!""",2012-01-09 18:37:46 UTC,"","",,"","Lots of fetters and bondage in this stanza, but not fetter metaphor of mind!",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),19425,6058