Musgrave, and other tales, Volume 2; Volume 465

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Page 78 - Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore, or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory Teaches truth to wandering men : Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die, — Homely scenes and simple views, Lowly thoughts may best infuse.
Page 249 - No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
Page 83 - How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour's communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all.
Page 37 - Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving ; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving ; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never.
Page 147 - The machinery for dreaming planted in the human brain was not planted for nothing. That faculty, in alliance with the mystery of darkness, is the one great tube through which man communicates with the shadowy.
Page 47 - By thine Agony and bloody Sweat ; by thy Cross and Passion ; by thy precious Death and Burial ; by thy glorious Resurrection and Ascension ; and by the coming of the Holy Ghost, Good Lord, deliver us.
Page 173 - The first is health — some leave other occupations as too laborious and teach school, thinking that the trials of the schoolroom are much less than those of any other station. Health Is essential to the teacher, not only on his own account but for the sake of his pupils. To the sick, every trial is doubled. Some suffering bad health are better teachers than those enjoying good, but If the same person were possessed with health, he would be probably a much, better teacher. On one occasion the examination...
Page 128 - Being who has promised to be the ' father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow.
Page 37 - Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her ? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying...

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