The Modern review, a quarterly magazine (ed. by R.A. Armstrong)., Том 3

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Richard Acland Armstrong
1882

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Стр. 456 - OH yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete...
Стр. 589 - The words of the wise are as goads, and as nails fastened by the masters of assemblies, which are given from one shepherd.
Стр. 376 - That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. The Big Bow-wow strain I can do myself like any now going ; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me.
Стр. 102 - The depth saith, It is not in me : And the sea saith, It is not with me.
Стр. 397 - It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, — A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Стр. 529 - Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control Rebellious passion ; for the Gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
Стр. 527 - I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified : We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
Стр. 517 - He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen — on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round ; He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth...
Стр. 457 - I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
Стр. 396 - In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is & silent joy at their arrival.

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