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Side 195 - The Lord, ye know, is God indeed, Without our aid He did us make: We are His flock, He doth us feed And for his sheep He doth us take.
Side 7 - THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed. Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. — So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
Side 202 - The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths ; all these have vanished. They live no longer in the faith of reason ! But still the heart doth need a language ; still Doth the old instinct bring back the old names.
Side 335 - People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate, or in the field of battle.
Side 334 - On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest...
Side 160 - E'en with her sighs the strings do break. And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I. For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring; But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.
Side 335 - He was half maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels, or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him.
Side 203 - Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave ; And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.
Side 272 - The best style is not that which puts the reader most easily and in the shortest time in possession of a writer's naked thoughts ; but that which is the truest image of a great intellect, which conveys fully and carries farthest into other souls the conceptions and feelings of a profound and lofty spirit. To be universally intelligible is not the highest merit. A great mind cannot, without injurious constraint, shrink itself to the grasp of common passive readers.