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Страница 152 - Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Страница 342 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends , — do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
Страница 22 - Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world ; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Страница 153 - Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change Vary to our Great Maker still new praise.
Страница 102 - Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heaven bestows on thee. Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
Страница 320 - As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man...
Страница 320 - OH for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more...
Страница 140 - They lived unknown, Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame, And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew — No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : And history, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this.
Страница 22 - To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations ; I behold The tumult, and am still.
Страница 361 - The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this — there lived a man ! James Montgomery, THE MARCH OF TIME.