Sheldon and Company, 1868

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Página 265 - Therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as you think not the Son of man cometh.
Página 392 - Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.
Página 28 - Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!
Página 3 - Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
Página 129 - And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still, 'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall ? Why shakes the spirit thus?
Página 271 - GOD is the refuge of his saints, When storms of sharp distress invade ; Ere we can offer our complaints, Behold him present with his aid. 2 Let mountains from their seats be hurled Down to the deep, and buried there ; Convulsions shake the solid world, Our faith shall never yield to fear.
Página 305 - Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the reed From storms a shelter, — give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine,-— Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! That in his bosom wins not for my name Th...
Página 194 - Till the air is dark with pinions. So disasters come not singly ; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise Round their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.
Página 418 - And she ever loved the sea — God's half uttered mystery — With its million lips of shells, Its never-ceasing roar ; And 'twas well that, when she died, They made Maud a grave beside The blue pulses of the tide, 'Mong the crags of Elsinore. One...
Página 418 - Then amid the grass that crept, fading over her who slept, How he hid his face and wept, crying, Late, alas ! too late I And they called her cold.

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