Arundines cami, sive, Musarum Cantabrigiensium lusus canori

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Deighton, 1841 - 261 Seiten
 

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Seite 30 - to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within the cup, And I'll not ask for wine. The thirst, that from the soul doth spring, Doth ask a draught divine; But might I from Jove's nectar sip, I'd change it not for thine.
Seite 38 - OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me. The smiles, the tears, of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone; The cheerful hearts now broken.
Seite 76 - Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail, Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise or blame; nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble. Let us go find the body, where it lies Soaked in his enemies
Seite 224 - Waft, waft, ye winds, his story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory It spreads from pole to pole: Till o'er our ransomed nature, The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign ! Heber.
Seite 40 - lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't in the burn
Seite 242 - still reply— Thy will be done! If thou should'st call me to resign What most I prize, it ne'er was mine, 1 only yield thee what was thine— Thy will be done! If sickness wastes me to decay, Let me with humble faith obey, And teach thy servant still to pray— Thy will be done!
Seite 242 - and sad my lot, Let me be still and murmur not; . But breathe the prayer divinely taught— Thy will be done ! What though in lonely grief I sigh For friends beloved, no longer nigh, Submissive I would still reply— Thy will be done! If thou should'st call me to resign What most I
Seite 62 - imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts Imagine howling—'tis too horrible ! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.
Seite 206 - task was done, When the clock told the hour of retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory.
Seite 36 - well: Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? 0 ! if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. Milton.

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