The American Library of Art, Literature and Song, Том 4

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Carson Stewart & Company, 1886
 

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Сторінка 99 - Why, well ; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience.
Сторінка 101 - Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Сторінка 156 - And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, - alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope shall moulder cold and low.
Сторінка 29 - Oh ! why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heaven With spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men as angels without feminine, Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
Сторінка 251 - Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that ! What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a
Сторінка 426 - GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
Сторінка 454 - 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 the Atlantic isles, — 'tis naught to me : Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, as in the city full ; And where he vital breathes, there must be joy.
Сторінка 454 - From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression.
Сторінка 290 - One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; The next with dirges due in sad array ' Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Сторінка 290 - ... unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er...

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