John Heywood's complete series of home lesson books. Code 1875, Band 3

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Seite 26 - SOME murmur, when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue. And some with thankful love are filled, If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy gild The darkness of their night.
Seite 9 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Seite 30 - Speak gently to the little child ! Its love be sure to gain ; Teach it in accents soft and mild ; It may not long remain.
Seite 15 - There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead ; He went to the brook, And saw a little duck, And shot it through the head, head, head.
Seite 7 - Descries, athwart the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray ; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away ; So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God.
Seite 12 - Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Seite 39 - THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye ; My noonday walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend.
Seite 29 - To purchase Heaven has gold the power? Can gold remove the mortal hour? In life can love be bought with gold ? Are friendship's pleasures to be sold ? No— all that's worth a wish — a thought, Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought.
Seite 10 - Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Seite 63 - WE scatter seeds with careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more ; But for a thousand years Their fruit appears, In weeds that mar the land, Or healthful store. The deeds we do, the words we say, — Into still air they seem to fleet, We count them ever past ; But they shall last, — In the dread judgment they And we shall meet.

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