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James Russell Lowell, Among my books 12 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2 10 0 Browse Search
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing) 4 0 Browse Search
John Esten Cooke, Wearing of the Gray: Being Personal Portraits, Scenes, and Adventures of War. 2 0 Browse Search
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 7. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 2 0 Browse Search
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 2 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Atlantic Essays 2 0 Browse Search
James Parton, Horace Greeley, T. W. Higginson, J. S. C. Abbott, E. M. Hoppin, William Winter, Theodore Tilton, Fanny Fern, Grace Greenwood, Mrs. E. C. Stanton, Women of the age; being natives of the lives and deeds of the most prominent women of the present gentlemen 2 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Cheerful Yesterdays 2 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: November 6, 1860., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in James Russell Lowell, Among my books. You can also browse the collection for Ariosto or search for Ariosto in all documents.

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James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Dante. (search)
ere he says that the Commedia was an odd poem, but gleaming with natural beauties, a work in which the author rose in parts above the bad taste of his age and his subject, and full of passages written as purely as if they had been of the time of Ariosto and Tasso. Essai sur les moeurs, Oeuvres, Tome XVII. pp. 371, 372. It is curious to see this antipathetic fascination which Dante exercised over a nature so opposite to his own. At the beginning of this century Chateaubriand speaks of Danth, and so will all those do who shall undertake to turn a poem into another tongue; for with all the care they take and ability they show, they will never reach the height of its original conception, says the Curate, speaking of a translation of Ariosto. （Don Quixote, P. I. c. 6.)— Beyond the sphere that hath the widest gyre Passeth the sigh In his own comment Dante says, I tell whither goes my thought, calling it by the name of one of its effects. that leaves my heart below; A new inte
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Spenser (search)
ing what he was, but what, under the given circumstances, it was possible for him to be. The fact that the great poem of Spenser was inspired by the Orlando of Ariosto, and written in avowed emulation of it, and that the poet almost always needs to have his fancy set agoing by the hint of some predecessor, must not lead us to ol follow truth too near the heels, it may haply strike out his teeth. The passage is one of the very few disgusting ones in the Faery Queen. Spenser was copying Ariosto; but the Italian poet, with the discreeter taste of his race, keeps to generalities. Spenser goes into particulars which can only be called nasty. He did this, d sweep of his measure, the beauty or vigor of his similes, the musical felicity of his diction, and the mellow versatility of his pictures. In this last quality Ariosto, whose emulous pupil he was, is as Bologna to Venice in the comparison. That, when the personal allusions have lost their meaning and the allegory has become a b
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Keats. (search)
d sanguineous. Between this time and the spring of 1820 he seems to have worked assiduously. Of course, worldly success was of more importance than ever. He began Hyperion, but had given it up in September, 1819, because, as he said, there were too many Miltonic inversions in it. He wrote Lamia after an attentive study of Dryden's versification. This period also produced the Eve of St. Agnes, Isabella, and the odes to the Nightingale and to the Grecian Urn. He studied Italian, read Ariosto, and wrote part of a humorous poem, The Cap and Bells. He tried his hand at tragedy, and Lord Houghton has published among his Remains, Otho the Great, and all that was ever written of King Stephen. We think he did unwisely, for a biographer is hardly called upon to show how ill his biographee could do anything. In the winter of 1820 he was chilled in riding on the top of a stage-coach, and came home in a state of feverish excitement. He was persuaded to go to bed, and in getting bet