A System of English Grammar

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Oliver & Boyd, 1845 - 168 pages
 

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Page 94 - Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best, And love with fear the only God, to walk As in His presence, ever to observe His providence, and on Him sole depend...
Page 83 - Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heaven bestows on thee. Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
Page 84 - I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
Page 149 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
Page 98 - OF Man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, In the beginning, how the heavens and earth Rose out of chaos...
Page 166 - Against revolted multitudes the cause Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms...
Page 165 - O Caledonia ! stern and wild, meet nurse for a poetic child, • land of brown heath and shaggy wood, land of the mountain and the flood, land of my sires!
Page 167 - All sadness but despair : now gentle gales, Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole Those balmy spoils.
Page 168 - Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy, Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there ; it is there, my child.
Page 165 - THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy.

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