The Quarterly Review, Том 112John Murray, 1862 |
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Сторінка 151 - Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore. What future bliss he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest.
Сторінка 78 - They that go down to the sea in ships : and occupy their business in great waters; These men see the works of the Lord : and his wonders in the deep.
Сторінка 176 - When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
Сторінка 177 - Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile.) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart; — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Сторінка 176 - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!
Сторінка 480 - Will you be ready with all faithful diligence to banish and drive away all erroneous and strange doctrines contrary to God's word...
Сторінка 176 - And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary!
Сторінка 176 - ... tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that loe'd me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary.
Сторінка 164 - And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine.
Сторінка 448 - Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a mill-stone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.