The English Reader: Or, Pieces in Prose and Poetry, from the Best Writers ...

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David Clark, 1828 - 252 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 228 - Though in the paths of death I tread, With gloomy horrors overspread ; My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, For thou, O Lord, art with me still ; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious lonely wilds I stray.
الصفحة 222 - On earth join all ye creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
الصفحة 29 - Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? there is more hope of a fool than of him.
الصفحة 193 - With thee conversing I forget all time ; All seasons and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds...
الصفحة 182 - Know, all the good that individuals find, Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, Reason's whole pleasure, ^all the joys of sense, Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence.
الصفحة 218 - I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 0 solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own.
الصفحة 185 - The sound must seem an echo to the sense : Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow ; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
الصفحة 79 - There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant consideration in religion than this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it.
الصفحة 247 - Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th...
الصفحة 14 - That changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees : Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent...

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