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Page 58 - With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Page 105 - The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope ; Blessings are plentiful and rife — More plentiful than hope.
Page 357 - Not there, not there, my child! "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 262 - We also wrote our lovers' names upon bits of paper, and rolled them up in clay, and put them into water, and the first that rose up was to be our Valentine. Would you think it?— Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay a-bed and shut my eyes all the morning till he came to our house ; for I would not have seen another man before him for all the world.
Page 70 - The land shall not be sold for ever: for the land is mine; for ye are strangers and sojourners with me.
Page 381 - WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied — • We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours.
Page 2 - If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies ; And they are fools who roam : The world has nothing to bestow ; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home.
Page 357 - Oh ! when a Mother meets on high The Babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight...
Page 237 - Observe the rising lily's snowy grace, Observe the various vegetable race ; They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow ; Yet see how warm they blush, how bright they glow. What regal vestments can with them compare, What king so shining, or what queen so fair...