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Página 49 - 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.
Página 139 - Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and evil-speaking be put away from you, with all malice ; and be ye kind one to another,, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.
Página 68 - I may rest in thee, and fully pacify and quiet my heart in thee! " For thou, Lord, art the very true peace of heart and the perfect rest of the soul, and without thee all things be grievous and unquiet.
Página 28 - ... the Christianity we have been brought up in, and one hears no echoes of it in the sects and Churches of Christendom. In boyhood I used to listen to a favourite hymn of the camp-meetings in Virginia, which now sounds to my ear a chanted fairy-tale. Christ was born in Bethlehem (thrice repeated) And in a manger laid. The Jews crucified him, And nailed him to a tree. Joseph begged his body And laid it in a tomb. The third day he rose again To reign at God's right hand. And so on.
Página 45 - ... longs he for the light ! He counts the hours, that linger Heavy with clouds and rain, And a great weight of darkness Lies on his fevered brain : He hears the loud clock ticking, And the owl hoot afar, While glimmers the pale night-light, And fades the midnight star ; Till eastward in the Heaven He sees at last the sign — O'er the far purple mountain A single silver line. It broadens, and it deepens To a sea of red and gold, With clouds of rosy amber Around its glory rolled ; Till each pane...
Página 5 - Tis Hope that makes thee at my casement stand, 'Tis Faith that bids thee fly into my hand. Thou lookest in my face with eyes of cheer That win me in affliction not to weep ; A voice in thy mute sympathy I hear,
Página 45 - Lies on his fevered brain. He hears the loud clock ticking, And the owl hoot afar ; While glimmers the pale night-light, And fades the midnight star ; Till eastward in the Heaven He sees at last the sign, — O'er the far purple mountain A single silver line. It broadens and it deepens To a sea of red and gold, With clouds of rosy amber Around its glory rolled. Till each pane of his window Is silvered o'er and o'er, And lines of golden arrows Lie on the dusky floor. The sick soul lieth weary In the...
Página 135 - I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me, but very unhappy.