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Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 12. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones) 22 0 Browse Search
William Hepworth Dixon, White Conquest: Volume 2 18 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2 12 0 Browse Search
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 10 0 Browse Search
The Photographic History of The Civil War: in ten volumes, Thousands of Scenes Photographed 1861-65, with Text by many Special Authorities, Volume 9: Poetry and Eloquence. (ed. Francis Trevelyan Miller) 10 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: April 5, 1861., [Electronic resource] 10 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 1 9 1 Browse Search
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 30. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones) 8 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: March 29, 1861., [Electronic resource] 8 0 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 2 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 6 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2. You can also browse the collection for Gray or search for Gray in all documents.

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Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2, Chapter 20: Italy.—May to September, 1839.—Age, 28. (search)
ith a little round table near, well-covered with books, read undisturbed till about ten, when the servant brought on a tray my breakfast,—two eggs done sur le plat,a roll, and cup of chocolate; some of the books were pushed aside enough to give momentary place to the tray. The breakfast was concluded without quitting the sofa; rang the bell, and my table was put to rights, and my reading went on often till five and six o'clock in the evening, without my once rising from the sofa. Was it not Gray's heaven? I did not read Crebillon and his school; but I will tell you soon what I did read, and you shall say if it was not as good. At five or six got up, stretched myself, dressed to go out; dined in a garden under a mulberry tree, chiefly on fruits, salads, and wine, with the occasional interjection of a soup or steak: the fruits were apricots, green almonds, and figs; the salads, those of the exception under the second declension of nouns in our old Latin Grammar; the wines, the light
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2, Chapter 25: service for Crawford.—The Somers Mutiny.—The nation's duty as to slavery.—1843.—Age, 32. (search)
ues; pieces that will live to be worn near the hearts of men when the thrilling war-notes of Campbell and Korner will be forgotten. You and I admire the poetry of Gray. There are few things in any language which give me more pleasure than the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, the Progress of Poesy, and the Bard. On these his reputd will stand for ever. But I had rather be the author of A Psalm of Life, The Light of Stars, The Reaper and the Flowers, and Excelsior, than those rich pieces of Gray. I think Longfellow without rival near his throne in America. I might go further: I doubt if there is any poet now alive, and not older than he, who has written tly in picturing those magical successes by which Cortez overthrew the Aztec Empire. It is in your pages that I first felt the beauty and fitness of an epithet of Gray in that stanza of the Progress of Poesy, which Dugald Stewart thought the finest in the English language,— Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. I beg
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2, July 13. (search)
know of Uhland or Korner calculated to do more good, to touch the soul to finer issues; pieces that will live to be worn near the hearts of men when the thrilling war-notes of Campbell and Korner will be forgotten. You and I admire the poetry of Gray. There are few things in any language which give me more pleasure than the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, the Progress of Poesy, and the Bard. On these his reputation rears itself, and will stand for ever. But I had rather be the author of A Psalm of Life, The Light of Stars, The Reaper and the Flowers, and Excelsior, than those rich pieces of Gray. I think Longfellow without rival near his throne in America. I might go further: I doubt if there is any poet now alive, and not older than he, who has written so much and so well. . . . Longfellow is to be happy for a fortnight in the shades of Cambridge; then to visit his wife's friends in Berkshire; then his own in Portland. I am all alone,—alone. My friends fall away from me. Eve