Reference > Quotations > Hoyt & Roberts, comps. > Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
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Hoyt & Roberts, comps.  Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations.  1922.
 
Sound
 
A thousand trills and quivering sounds
  In airy circles o’er us fly,
Till, wafted by a gentle breeze,
They faint and languish by degrees,
  And at a distance die.
        Addison—An Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day. VI.
  1
A noise like of a hidden brook
  In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
  Singeth a quiet tune.
        Coleridge—Ancient Mariner. Pt. V. St. 18.
  2
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
        Congreve—Mourning Bride. Act I. Sc. 1.
  3
I hear a sound so fine there’s nothing lives
’Twixt it and silence.
        James Sheridan Knowles—Virginius. Act V. Sc. 2.
  4
Parent of sweetest sounds, yet mute forever.
        Macaulay—Enigma. “Cut off my head, etc.” Last line.
  5
And filled the air with barbarous dissonance.
        MiltonComus. L. 550.
  6
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds,
At which the universal host up sent
A shout that tore hell’s concave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
        MiltonParadise Lost. Bk. I. L. 540.
  7
Their rising all at once was as the sound
Of thunder heard remote.
        MiltonParadise Lost. Bk. II. L. 476.
  8
To all proportioned terms he must dispense
And make the sound a picture of the sense.
        Christopher Pitt—Translation of Vida’s Art of Poetry.
  9
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass.
        Poe—Al Aaraaf. Pt. II. L. 124.
  10
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
        Pope—Essay on Criticism. L. 365.
  11
The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.
        Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 4. L. 73.
  12
          What’s the business,
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!
        Macbeth. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 86.
  13
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.
        Isaac Watts—Hymns and Spiritual Songs. Bk. II. Hymn 63.
  14
My eyes are dim with childish tears,
  My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
  Which in those days I heard.
        WordsworthThe Fountain.
  15
 
 
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