The Boy's Book: Consisting of Original Articles in Prose and Poetry

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Turner, Hughes, & Hayden, 1845 - 247 páginas
 

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Página 48 - Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number; he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power; not one faileth.
Página 48 - Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings, as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
Página 117 - From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend.
Página 105 - O thou bounteous giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
Página 117 - No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes; Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er; The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Página 80 - Thy arts of building from the bee receive; Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave; Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
Página 59 - If I am asked, who is the greatest man ? I answer the best ; and if I am required to say who is the best? I reply he that has deserved most of his fellowcreatures.
Página 49 - Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above ? Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray ; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day ; WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.
Página 71 - merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair hair'd maid," which I have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a mother's fondness for her school-boy. What would I give to call her back to earth for one day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given her gentle spirit pain; and the day, my friend, I trust, will Come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love,...
Página 115 - War is a game, that were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.

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