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2,201 illustrations — Poetic illustrations and verse for preaching
Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its...
Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil, Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind, Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind Fed hopes of its redemption; these...
The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the...
Fame, Wisdom, Love, and Power were mine, And Health and Youth possessed me; My goblets blushed from every vine, And lovely forms caressed me; I sunned my heart in Beauty's eyes, And felt my soul grow tender; All Earth can...
When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen, And yellowhammers gathering the dry bents By the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen, Feathered with love and nature's good intents? Rude is the tent this architect invents, Rural the place,...
My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read, 'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
I enter thy garden of roses, Belovéd and fair Haidée, Each morning where Flora reposes, For surely I see her in thee. Oh, Lovely!
Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, Live not through the waste of time! Love's rose a host of thorns invests; Cold, ungenial is the clime, Where its honours blow. Youth says, 'The purple flowers are mine,' Which die the while they glow.
1 A GREAT year and place; A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother’s heart closer than any yet.
How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For 'tis my outward Soul, Viceroy to that which then to heaven...
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping.
Full of rebellion, I would die, Or fight, or travel, or deny That thou has aught to do with me. O tame my heart; It is thy highest art To captivate strong holds to thee.
HEAR, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;— If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, I rede you tent it: A chield’s amang you takin notes, And, faith, he’ll prent it: If in your bounds...
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to...
ON the beach at night alone, As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song, As I watch the bright stars shining—I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future.
Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome scene Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest, Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil, Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake, Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweet Than the...
Start not--nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.
Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature -- not his Father but his Mother stirs within him, and he becomes immortal with her immortality. From time to time she claims kindredship with us, and some globule from her veins steals up into our own.
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth. I have heard love talked in my early youth, And since, not so long back but that the flowers Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and...
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd.
How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heav'nly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I’d been a lodger, My humble knapsack a’ my...
The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O! The robin sings his song by the dairy O! Where the little Jenny wrens cock their tails among the hens, Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O! The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O!
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