Lily Bell: Or, The Lost Child

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J. French, 1857 - 343 pages

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Page 112 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
Page 310 - The motion of a hidden fire, That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of the eye, When none but God is near.
Page 230 - Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Page 9 - Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet than all other? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full Home she had none.
Page 62 - For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.
Page 150 - Her gentle tone comes stealing by — And years, and sin, and manhood flee, And leave me at my mother's knee. The book of nature, and the print Of beauty on the whispering sea, Give aye to me some lineament Of what I have been taught to be. My heart is harder, and perhaps My- manliness hath drunk up tears ; And there's a mildew in the lapse Of a few swift and chequer'd years — But nature's book is even yet With all my mother's lessons writ.
Page 51 - Thrice happy he! who on the sunless side Of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd, Beneath the whole collected shade reclines: Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought, And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams, Sits coolly calm; while all the world without, Unsatisfied^ and sick, tosses in noon.
Page 26 - We sacrifice to dress, till household joys And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry And keeps our larder lean ; puts out our fires ; And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, Where peace and hospitality might reign.
Page 10 - Let my sins be all forgiven, Bless the friends I love so well ; Take me when I die to heaven, Happy there with Thee to dwell.
Page 240 - A boat at midnight sent alone To drift upon the moonless sea, A lute, whose leading chord is gone, A wounded bird, that hath but one Imperfect wing to soar upon, Are like what I am, without thee...

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