The poets and poetry of Europe

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C. S. Francis and company, 1855 - English poetry - 779 pages

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Page 334 - INTO the Silent Land ! Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand, Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land...
Page 247 - The ancient prince of hell Hath risen with purpose fell ; Strong mail of craft and power He weareth in this hour, On earth is not his fellow.
Page 575 - Progress," in Dutch, finely printed on good paper, with copper cuts, a dress better than I had ever seen it wear in its own language. I have since found that it has been translated into most of the languages of Europe, and suppose it has been more generally read than any other book, except perhaps the Bible.
Page 190 - Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor; and if I have taken anything from any man by false accusation, I restore him fourfold.
Page 44 - Fates, — the Past, Present, Future ; watering its roots from the Sacred Well. Its ' boughs,' with their buddings and disleafings, — events, things suffered, things done, catastrophes, — stretch through all lands and times. Is not every leaf of it a biography, every fibre there an act or word ? Its boughs are Histories of Nations. The rustle of it is the noise of Human Existence, onwards from of old.
Page 295 - though our clock strikes when there is a change from hour to hour, no hammer in the Horologe of Time peals through the Universe to proclaim that there is a change from era to era.
Page 298 - Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag Thy body to a grave in the abyss. A cloud thickens the night. Hark ! how the tempest crashes through the forest ! The owls fly out in strange affright ; The columns of the evergreen palaces Are split and shattered ; The roots creak, and stretch, and groan; And ruinously overthrown, The trunks are crushed and shattered By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress. Over each other crack and crash they all In terrible and intertangled fall ; And through...
Page 562 - THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: My unassisted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed : Of good and pious works thou art the seed, That quickens only where thou say'st it may : Unless Thou show to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father ! Thou must lead.
Page 562 - No man can find it ; Father ! Thou must lead. Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.
Page 301 - Let it be — pass on — No good can come of it — it is not well To meet it — it is an enchanted phantom, A lifeless idol; with its numbing look, It freezes up the blood of man ; and they Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone, Like those who saw Medusa.

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