Gems of English poetry from Chaucer to the present times, selected and arranged by mrs. MarzialsMary Anne Marzials Wesleyan Conference Office, 1867 - 295 стор. |
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Сторінка 21
... Thine ! When winter - fortunes cloud the brows Of summer friends ; when eyes grow strange ; When plighted faith forgets its vows ; When earth and all things in it change ; O Lord , Thy mercies fail me never : Where once Thou lov'st ...
... Thine ! When winter - fortunes cloud the brows Of summer friends ; when eyes grow strange ; When plighted faith forgets its vows ; When earth and all things in it change ; O Lord , Thy mercies fail me never : Where once Thou lov'st ...
Сторінка 56
... thine eyes ! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; See future sons , and daughters yet unborn , In crowding ranks on every side arise , Demanding life , impatient for the skies ! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend , Walk in ...
... thine eyes ! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; See future sons , and daughters yet unborn , In crowding ranks on every side arise , Demanding life , impatient for the skies ! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend , Walk in ...
Сторінка 57
... thine ! The seas shall waste , the skies in smoke decay , Rocks fall to dust , and mountains melt away : But fix'd His word , His saving power remains ; Thy realm for ever lasts , thy own Messiah reigns ! SAMUEL WESLEY , JUN . Born ...
... thine ! The seas shall waste , the skies in smoke decay , Rocks fall to dust , and mountains melt away : But fix'd His word , His saving power remains ; Thy realm for ever lasts , thy own Messiah reigns ! SAMUEL WESLEY , JUN . Born ...
Сторінка 59
... thine own ! Fairest eyes ! whose dawning light Late with rapture blest my sight , Ere your orbs extinguish'd be , Bend their trembling beams on me ! Drooping sweetness ! verdant flower ! Blooming , withering in an hour ! Ere thy gentle ...
... thine own ! Fairest eyes ! whose dawning light Late with rapture blest my sight , Ere your orbs extinguish'd be , Bend their trembling beams on me ! Drooping sweetness ! verdant flower ! Blooming , withering in an hour ! Ere thy gentle ...
Сторінка 64
... Son . PRAYER FOR A DYING CHILD . WHEN Thou didst our Isaac give , Him we trembled to receive ; Him we call'd not ours , but Thine ; Him we promised to resign . Meekly we our vow repeat ; Nature shall to grace 64 GEMS OF ENGLISH POETRY .
... Son . PRAYER FOR A DYING CHILD . WHEN Thou didst our Isaac give , Him we trembled to receive ; Him we call'd not ours , but Thine ; Him we promised to resign . Meekly we our vow repeat ; Nature shall to grace 64 GEMS OF ENGLISH POETRY .
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angel-light angels beams beauty beneath bless blest bliss bloom Born bosom breast breath bright brow calm child cloud COVENTRY PATMORE crown dark dead dear death deep delight didst Died divine doth dream earth ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ENGLISH POETRY eternal eyes face fair Father fear flame flowers friends glory grace grave hand happy hath hear heart heaven helmet of Navarre Henry of Navarre holy hope hour John Anderson King land LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL light live lonely look'd Lord lyre MARGUERITE OF FRANCE mighty morn murmur ne'er never night o'er pale praise pride rest RICHARD CRASHAW rise rose round seem'd shine sigh sight silent sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit star sweet tears thee thine things THOMAS HOOD Thou art thou hast thought throne thy disease Twas unto voice waves weary weep wild winds wings
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Сторінка 110 - I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
Сторінка 151 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
Сторінка 30 - Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine...
Сторінка 178 - Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep?
Сторінка 37 - The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me : But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works), he must delight in virtue ; And that which he delights in must be happy.
Сторінка 142 - Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain lias bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
Сторінка 35 - Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Сторінка 10 - That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Сторінка 242 - Week in, week out, from morn till night You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.
Сторінка 165 - What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...