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Seite 197 - For this Agar is mount Sinai in Arabia, and answereth to Jerusalem which now is, and is in bondage with her children. But Jerusalem which is above is free; which is the mother of us all.
Seite 194 - The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ; No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead.
Seite 198 - ... have escaped from some higher sphere; they are the outpourings of eternal harmony in the medium of created sound; they are echoes from our Home; they are the voice of Angels, or the Magnificat of Saints, or the living laws of Divine Governance, or the Divine Attributes; something are they besides themselves, which we cannot compass, which we cannot utter,— though mortal man, and he perhaps not otherwise distinguished above his fellows, has the gift of eliciting them.
Seite 448 - To do thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds, And simple trust can find thy ways We miss with chart of creeds.
Seite 447 - We may not climb the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord Christ down; In vain we search the lowest deeps, For Him no depths can drown.
Seite 210 - Abide with me from morn till eve, For without thee I cannot live ; Abide with me when night is nigh, For without thee I dare not die.
Seite 326 - O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
Seite 448 - We faintly hear, we dimly see, In differing phrase we pray; But, dim or clear, we own in thee The Light, the Truth, the Way...
Seite 194 - O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. 'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.
Seite 112 - Tis true : there's magic in the web of it : A sibyl, that had number'd in the world The sun to course two hundred compasses, In her prophetic fury sew'd the work ; The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk ; And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful Conserved of maidens