Songs of the moral sympathies

الغلاف الأمامي
J.G.F. & J. Rivington, 1841 - 62 من الصفحات

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الصفحة 7 - Facilis descensus Averni; Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis ; Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus, hie labor est !"—VIRGIL.
الصفحة 5 - He said, It is finished ; and He bowed his head, and gave up the ghost."—St. JOHN xix. 30.
الصفحة 16 - unto me, because I have not deserved them ; to return all to Thee, for it is Thine alone ; to suffer reproof thankfully ; to amend all my faults speedily : and do Thou invest my soul with the humble robe of my meek Master and Saviour JESUS : and when I have humbly, patiently, charitably, and diligently served Thee, change this robe into the shining garment of
الصفحة 43 - These, as they change, Almighty Father, these " Are but the varied God."—THOMSON.
الصفحة 6 - with a spear pierced his side, and forthwith came thereout blood and
الصفحة 24 - Oh, worthless is the bliss the world admires, And helpless whom the vulgar mightiest deem ; Tasteless fruition, impotent desires, Pomp, pleasure, pride, how valueless ye seem When the poor soul awakes, and finds its life a dream
الصفحة 28 - I ask the sky, if there ye fly, With angels " bright and fair ?" Each silver star, that shines afar, If ye are singing there ? I ask each stream, whose dancing beam Makes glad each flowery dell; Each bird, each wood, each crag, each
الصفحة 23 - this vale of tears, And lift in silent dread your wistful eyes O'er the bleak wilderness of future years, Where from the storm no sheltering bourn appears ; Whom genius, moody guide, has led astray, And pride has mock'd, and want with chilling fears, Quench'd of each youthful hope the timid ray ; Yet envy not the great, yet envy not the gay
الصفحة 23 - Say, can the silken bed refreshment bring, When from the restless spirit sleep retires ? Or the sharp fever of the serpent's sting, Pains it less shrewdly for his burnish'd spires
الصفحة 28 - Tears off the selfish mask ;— The greedy tomb, in its dark womb. Conceals your forms from sight, And now, all-blest, ye are at rest, In realms where frowns no night! vI. Tis sweet to dwell in hawthorn dell And roam the groves among ;— To climb the mount, to haunt the fount,

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