Ada, and other poems

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Сторінка 137 - MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home! home! sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home!
Сторінка 266 - Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try : Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. 4 Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air ; His watchword at the gates of death ; He enters heaven with prayer. 5 Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways ; While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry—
Сторінка 162 - Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
Сторінка 152 - No more — no more — oh ! never more on me The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee, Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Сторінка 111 - SAY, what is woman's heart? —a thing Where all the deepest feelings spring; A harp, whose tender chords reply Cnto the touch, in harmony; A world, whose fairy scenes are fraught With all the colored dreams of thought; A bark, that still will blindly move Upon the treacherous seas of love.
Сторінка 142 - THE sun is high in heaven : a favouring breeze Fills the white sail and sweeps the rippling seas, And the tall vessel walks her destined way, And rocks and glitters in the curling spray. Among the shrouds, all happiness and hope, The busy seaman coils the rattling rope, And tells his jest, and carols out his song, And laughs his laughter, vehement and long ; Or pauses on the deck, to dream awhile Of his babes...
Сторінка 275 - THY WILL BE DONE. IT is a short and simple prayer; But 'tis the Christian's stay, Through every varied scene of care, Until his dying day. As through the wilderness of life, Calmly he wanders on, His prayer in every time of strife Is still "Thy will be done!
Сторінка 276 - Then, kneeling by its parents' hearth, Play-tired, at set of sun, What is the prayer he murmurs forth ? — "Father! — thy will be done." When the bright summer sky of time, Cloudless, is o'er him spread ; When love's bright wreath is in its prime, With not one blossom dead : Whilst o'er his hopes, and prospects fair, No mist of woe hath gone ; Still, he repeats the first taught prayer — "Father, thy will be done!
Сторінка 171 - For me there's as beautiful music still. I hear it in every murmuring breath That waves the bells of the purple heath;. In the rustic's laugh, as it echoes along ; In the watchdog's bark, in the shepherd's song. In the whizzing sound of the wild bird's wing, There's music, there's music in everything.
Сторінка 165 - How quickly is it gone ! When are we happiest, then ? — oh ! when resigned To whatsoe'er our cup of life may brim ; When we can know ourselves but weak and blind Creatures of earth ! and trust alone in Him Who giveth in His mercy, joy, or pain : Oh ! we are happiest then ! MA BROWNE.

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