The book of poetry [ed. by B.G. Johns].E. Lumley, 1847 - 186 Seiten |
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Seite 47
... holy Sabbath comes - we hear them now once more , With a message from the heavens of love , a voice that speaks to all ; Unto the temple of our God , unto His shrine they call . Whether your home's in halls of state , or by the lowly ...
... holy Sabbath comes - we hear them now once more , With a message from the heavens of love , a voice that speaks to all ; Unto the temple of our God , unto His shrine they call . Whether your home's in halls of state , or by the lowly ...
Seite 54
... investment , which shall bless and never curse ! Oh , who would spend for house or land , if he might but from above Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness and love ? THE TRUMPET . 55 Pour out upon the needy ones New-Year's.
... investment , which shall bless and never curse ! Oh , who would spend for house or land , if he might but from above Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness and love ? THE TRUMPET . 55 Pour out upon the needy ones New-Year's.
Seite 55
... holy floor Kneel humbly in your penitence among the kneel- ing poor ; Cry out at morn and even , and amid the busy day , " Spare , spare , O Lord , Thy people ; -oh , cast us not away ! " Hush down the sounds of quarrel ; let party ...
... holy floor Kneel humbly in your penitence among the kneel- ing poor ; Cry out at morn and even , and amid the busy day , " Spare , spare , O Lord , Thy people ; -oh , cast us not away ! " Hush down the sounds of quarrel ; let party ...
Seite 59
... good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God , who rules the fate of war , To fight for His own holy name , and Henry of Navarre . 60 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE . The king is PT . I.
... good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God , who rules the fate of war , To fight for His own holy name , and Henry of Navarre . 60 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE . The king is PT . I.
Seite 62
... holy Name , from whom all glories are ; And glory to our sovereign lord , King Henry of Navarre ! MACAULAY . THE SKIES . Ay , gloriously thou standest there , Beautiful , boundless firmament , That , swelling wide o'er earth and air ...
... holy Name , from whom all glories are ; And glory to our sovereign lord , King Henry of Navarre ! MACAULAY . THE SKIES . Ay , gloriously thou standest there , Beautiful , boundless firmament , That , swelling wide o'er earth and air ...
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Häufige Begriffe und Wortgruppen
beauty behold bells beneath bowers breast breath bright Caledonia CASABIANCA charms cheerful clouds cried Cumnor Hall dark dead death deep doth dread E'en earth eyes fair falchion Father William fear flowers Gelert gentle glory grave green green days Grongar Hill hand hath hear heard heart heaven helmet of Navarre Henry of Navarre hill HOHENLINDEN hope HYMN King Henry land light LLEWELLYN lonely look look'd Lord Lycidas Mayenne Milford Bay morn mourn murmur never night o'er pass'd Plymouth Bay pomp porringer praise pray round S. T. COLERIDGE shade sight silent sing Skiddaw skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound sound of music spirit spring star stream sweet tears tell thee thine things thou art thou hast thought village voice wave weep wild wind wings woods young youth
Beliebte Passagen
Seite 116 - Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor...
Seite 28 - Sweet smiling village ! loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green ! One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain...
Seite 119 - The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — This is no flattery : these are counsellors, That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity ; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and...
Seite 120 - Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons' difference : as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Seite 34 - It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Seite 134 - I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.
Seite 26 - And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of Pine, or monumental Oak, Where the rude Axe with heaved stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
Seite 65 - Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they, I pray you tell?
Seite 28 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...
Seite 73 - Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! And charge with all thy chivalry...