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2,201 illustrations — Poetic illustrations and verse for preaching
O THOU, who in the heavens does dwell, Who, as it pleases best Thysel’, Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell, A’ for Thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They’ve done afore Thee!
'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood.
THE PROLOGUE. "SIR Clerk of Oxenford," our Hoste said, "Ye ride as still and coy, as doth a maid That were new spoused, sitting at the board: This day I heard not of your tongue a word.
I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where...
Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his--bride.
1 O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman! Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds! Such join’d unended links, each hook’d to the next! Each answering all—each sharing the earth with all. What widens within you, Walt Whitman? What waves and soils exuding?
There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, Had grown quite weak and gray before his time; Nor any could the restless griefs unravel Which burned within him, withering up his prime And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
THE PROLOGUE.
OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE. AWAKE, my St John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope So oft, and the persuasive rhetoric That sleeked his tongue, and won so much on Eve, So little here, nay lost.
_On peut trouver des femmes qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie, mais il est rare d'en trouver qui n'en aient jamais eu qu'une_.--[_Réflexions_ ... du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, No.
SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED.
UPON that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans 2 dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the rout is ta’en, Beneath the moon’s pale beams; There, up the Cove, 3 to...
A Poetic Romance. "THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG." INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON.
FINTRY, my stay in wordly strife, Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, Are ye as idle’s I am? Come then, wi’ uncouth kintra fleg, O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him.
'The good die first, And those whose hearts are dry as summer dust, Burn to the socket!' Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood!
MY lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.
SOME books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn’d: Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d, In holy rapture, A rousing whid at times to vend, And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
SPONTANEOUS me, Nature, The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder, The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash, The same, late in autumn—the hues...
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies! Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains! Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras! You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert, Blending, with Nature’s rhythmus, all the tongues of nations;...
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?
Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink, First of this thing, and that thing, and t'other thing think; Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind, That the sense or the subject I never...
nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy-- O!
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