Poems and Psalms, ed. by J. Hannah

Francis MacPherson, 1843 - 222 páginas

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Página xiv - Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me, thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day, (though overcast Before thou had'st thy noon-tide past) And I remember must in tears, Thou scarce had'st seen so many years As day tells hours.
Página cxix - LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood : Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in and paid to-night.
Página 36 - A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom. And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world — like thine, My Little World ! That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls...
Página 180 - And, when to the amazement of some beholders he appeared in the Pulpit, many of them thought he presented himself not to preach mortification by a living voice : but, mortality by a decayed body and a dying face.
Página 37 - Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves ; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there; I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay ; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree, And every hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer...
Página cxix - E'en such is man ; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; The flower fades, the morning hasteth ; The sun sets, the shadow flies ; The gourd consumes, — and man he dies...
Página 30 - Since then some higher destinies command Let us not strive nor labour to withstand What is past help. The longest date of grief Can never yield a hope of our relief; And though we waste ourselves in moist laments, Tears may drown us, but not our discontents.

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