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Стр. 166 - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Стр. 160 - Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone ; A truth, which through our being then doth melt And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
Стр. 191 - A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said today. "Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.
Стр. 212 - For the enemy hath persecuted my soul; he hath smitten my life down to the ground; he hath made me to dwell in darkness, as those that have been long dead.
Стр. 213 - Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust : cause me to know the way wherein I should walk ; for I lift up my soul unto thee.
Стр. 181 - On that hard Pagan world disgust And secret loathing fell. Deep weariness and sated lust Made human life a hell. "In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman noble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian way. "He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown'd his hair with flowers— No easier nor no quicker pass'd The impracticable hours.
Стр. 163 - A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, My dog howls at the gate.
Стр. 213 - I stretch forth my hands unto thee : my soul gaspeth unto thee as a thirsty land. 7 Hear me, O LORD, and that soon, for my spirit waxeth faint : hide not thy face from me, lest I be like unto them that go down into the pit.