Blackwood's Magazine, Tom 45

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W. Blackwood, 1839
 

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Strona 309 - Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a...
Strona 311 - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
Strona 308 - And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell, Of every star that Heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Strona 479 - From Greenland's icy mountains ; From India's coral strand ; Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand ; From many an ancient river ; From many a palmy plain ; They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain.
Strona 309 - HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise...
Strona 178 - Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon!
Strona 521 - If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.
Strona 130 - ... twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ! Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail...
Strona 130 - A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure?
Strona 130 - Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

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