Salad for the SolitaryLamport, Blakeman & Law, 1853 - 344 من الصفحات |
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مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 174 - E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, His seal was on thy brow. Dust to its narrow house beneath ! Soul to its place on high ! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die.
الصفحة 110 - at the Mount of St Mary's, in the stony stage where I now stand, I have brought you some fine biscuits, baked in the oven of charity, carefully conserved for the chickens of the church, the sparrows of the spirit, and the sweet swallows of salvation.
الصفحة 183 - For him the Spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
الصفحة 290 - God loves from whole to parts: but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; His country next; and next all human race...
الصفحة 276 - We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most — feels the noblest — acts the best.
الصفحة 308 - With NATURE, HOPE, and POESY, When I was young ! When I was young? — Ah, woful WHEN ! Ah for the Change 'twixt Now and Then ! This breathing House not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery Cliffs and glittering Sands, How lightly then it flashed along...
الصفحة 306 - Who hath woe ? who hath sorrow ? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause ? who hath redness of eyes ? They that tarry long at the wine ; they that go to seek mixed wine. Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.
الصفحة 307 - Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind, Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed it sighing cries, Hey ho.
الصفحة 172 - Need you ask? There is but one." I chose the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel ; he listened with mild devotion, and said, when I had done, " Well, this is a great comfort ; I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to be myself again.
الصفحة 318 - Macbeth does murder sleep," the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast, — Lady M.