Golden Grains from Life's Harvest Field

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J. W. Bradley, 1853 - 240 Seiten

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Seite 208 - Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
Seite 208 - The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.
Seite 172 - Sweet is the hour of rest ! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie; When the burden and the heat Of labour's task are o'er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. Come to the sunset tree ! The day is past and gone ; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
Seite 82 - Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from Heaven He descended, And became a child like thee! Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse...
Seite 173 - Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie ; When the burden and the heat Of labour's task are o'er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at hia door. Come to the sunset tree!
Seite 173 - Yes ; tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round ! And the gale that fans our brows. But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our yearning hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave.
Seite 173 - There shall no tempest blow. No scorching noontide heat ; There shall be no more snow, No weary wandering feet. So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trod To the quiet resting of the skies. To the Sabbath of our God.
Seite 209 - Where are the notes of spring ? Yet the brown bee still hums his quiet tune, And the low shiver of the insect's wing Disturbs the hush of noon. The thin, transparent leaves, Like flakes of amber, quiver in the light ; While Autumn round her silver fret-work weaves In glittering hoar-frost white. Oh, Autumn, thou art blest! My bosom heaves with breathless rapture here, I love thee well, season of mournful rest ! Sweet Sabbath of the year ! NATURE.
Seite 208 - Is to the wind, and each sweet flower Bows down its perfumed blossoms to partake The influence of the hour ; — Where the cloud-shadows pass With noiseless speed by lonely lake and rill, Chasing each other o'er the low...
Seite 209 - ... lake and rill, Chasing each other o'er the low crisped grass, And up the distant hill ; — Where the clear stream steals on Upon its silent path, as it were sad To find each downward-gazing flower has gone That made it once so glad. I number it in days, Since last I roamed through this secluded dell ; Seeking a shelter from the summer rays, Where flowers and wild-birds dwell. While, gemmed with dew-drops bright, Green leaves and silken buds were dancing there, I moved my lips in murmurs of delight,...

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