The Shorter Poems of the Eighteenth Century

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Iolo Aneurin Williams
W. Heinemann, Limited, 1923 - 478 Seiten
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Seite 54 - THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye ; My noonday walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend.
Seite 414 - Nothing in my hand I bring, Simply to Thy cross I cling; ' Naked, come to Thee for dress, Helpless, look to Thee for grace; Foul, I to the fountain fly; Wash me, Saviour, or I die.
Seite 151 - Hark, they whisper ; angels say, " Sister spirit, come away ! " What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my...
Seite 302 - Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the' inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Seite 388 - Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head...
Seite 218 - Christ, art all I want; More than all in Thee I find: Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick, and lead the blind. Just and holy is Thy name; I am all unrighteousness; False and full of sin I am, Thou art full of truth and grace.
Seite 146 - How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Seite 54 - Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; And nightly, to the listening Earth, Repeats the story of her birth : Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
Seite 302 - Await alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Seite 77 - GOD, our Help in ages past, Our Hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal Home...

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