Carlington Castle : A Tale of the Jesuits

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Bunce & Brother, 1854 - 328
 

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Strona 31 - My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
Strona 6 - For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.
Strona 15 - What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Strona 23 - O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
Strona 282 - ' I have been with thee in thine hour Of glory and of bliss ; Doubt not its memory's living power To strengthen me through this ! And thou, mine honoured love and true, Bear on, bear nobly on ! We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won.
Strona 144 - Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate?
Strona 169 - I'll see, before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; And, on the proof, there is no more but this, — Away at once with love, or jealousy.
Strona 321 - A traitor was His name on earth ! a felon's doom His fate ! Thrice welcome were my Master's cup, but it hath come too late ; The summons of that mightiest King to whom all kings must bow, Is on me for an earlier day — is on me even now ! " I hear, I hear the chariot wheels, that bring my Saviour nigh, For me He bears a golden crown, a harp of melody ; For me He opens wide His arms, He shows His wounded side, Lord, 'tis my passport into life ! — I live — for Thou hast died ! " They give his...
Strona 248 - How ill this taper burns ! — Ha ! who comes here ? I think it is the weakness of my eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. — Art thou any thing? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare ? Speak to me what thou art.
Strona 193 - There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live ; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself — The last infirmity of evil.

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