Irish Monthly Magazine, Volumen 5

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Página 572 - There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of th' everlasting chime ; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.
Página 534 - Ah! when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.
Página 751 - You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity.
Página 45 - For the leaders of this people cause them to err ; and they that are led of them are destroyed.
Página 720 - For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
Página 461 - Of these the false Achitophel was first, A name to all succeeding ages curst : For close designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit...
Página 534 - A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart.
Página 762 - By your beauty, which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, — By our grand heroic guesses Through your falsehood at the True, — We will weep not ! earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole — And Pan is dead. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth, And those debonair romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phcebus' chariot-course is run : Look up, poets, to the sun ! Pan, Pan is dead.
Página 198 - Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made...
Página 587 - Not weighed or winnowed by the multitude, But swallowed in the mass unchewed and crude. Some truth there was, but dashed and brewed with lies, To please the fools, and puzzle all the wise : Succeeding times did equal folly call, Believing nothing, or believing all. Th' Egyptian rites the Jebusites embraced, Where gods were recommended by their taste.

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