Aggesden vicarage, or, Bridget Storey's first charge, Том 1;Том 373

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Стр. 249 - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
Стр. 233 - She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Стр. 174 - The human sorrow and smart ! And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part : But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart...
Стр. 17 - COME to me, O ye children ! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow.
Стр. 115 - My son is my son till he gets him a wife, But my daughter's my daughter all the days of her life.
Стр. 130 - HE that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune ; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the public, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men ; which both in affection and means have married and endowed the public.
Стр. 159 - Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord, Largely Thy gifts should be restored ; Freely Thou givest, and Thy word Is,
Стр. 174 - Of the hearts that daily break, Of the tears that hourly fall, Of the many, many troubles of life, That grieve this earthly ball...
Стр. 46 - Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief, Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; The dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the woods...
Стр. 186 - Tho' thou art lonely, there's an eye will mark Thy loneliness, and guerdon all thy sorrow ! Tho' thou must toil 'mong cold and sordid men, With none to echo back thy thought, or love thee, Cheer up, poor heart ! thou dost not beat in vain, For God is over all, and heaven above thee — Hope on, hope...

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