Отзывы - Написать отзыв
Не удалось найти ни одного отзыва.
appear arms beauty behold beneath bird birth bless blood breast breath bright clouds cold darkness dead dear death deep dream dust earth eternal face fall fear feel fell felt field fire flame flowers foes give gloom glory grace grave hand hath head hear heard heart heaven hope hour kind King land leaves light living look Lord meet mind morning mother's mountains never night o'er O’er once peace poor praise PSALM rest rise rose round seen shine sight sing sleep smile song soon soul sound spirit spread spring stand star stood storm strange strength sweet tears thee thine things thou thought Till tomb truth turn voice wild wind wing youth
Стр. 75 - HAIL to the Lord's Anointed, Great David's greater Son ; Hail, in the time appointed, His reign on earth begun ; He comes to break oppression, To set the captive free, To take away transgression, And rule in equity.
Стр. 345 - I gave him all ; he blessed it, brake, And ate; but gave me part again; Mine was an angel's portion then; For, while I fed with eager haste, That crust was manna to my taste.
Стр. 235 - Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man — and who was he ? Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee.
Стр. 235 - Alternate triumphed in his breast; His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear ! Oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall, We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.
Стр. 363 - THE bird that soars on highest wing Builds on the ground her lowly nest ; And she that doth most sweetly sing Sings in the shade when all things rest : — In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility. 2 When Mary chose the better part, She meekly sat at Jesus...
Стр. 347 - FRIEND after friend departs : Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying, none were blest.
Стр. 65 - Confesses he has none. 428. 7s. M. 6 1. The Soul panting for God. 1 As the hart, with eager looks, Panteth for the water-brooks, So my soul, athirst for thee, Pants the living God to see ; When, O when, with filial fear, Lord, shall I to thee draw near ? 2 Why art thou cast down, my soul ? God, thy God, shall make thee whole : Why art thou disquieted ? God shall lift thy fallen head, And his countenance benign Be the saving health of thine.
Стр. 342 - Thrice welcome, little English flower! My mother-country's white and red, In rose or lily, till this hour, Never to me such beauty spread: Transplanted from thine island-bed, A treasure in a grain of earth, Strange as a spirit from the dead, Thine embryo sprang to birth.