Poetical Works: With a Memoir of Her Life and Character


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Pàgina 35 - Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! * Each stamps its image as the other flies.
Pàgina 69 - Or have we to reproach ourselves, that "we have left undone those things which we ought to have done ; and have done those things which we ought not to have done?
Pàgina 72 - If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! — No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
Pàgina 29 - A deathless thing ! They know not what they do, Nor what they deal with. Man perchance may bind The flower his step hath bruised ; or light anew' The torch he quenches ; or to music wind Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew; — But for the soul ! — oh ! tremble, and beware To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there...
Pàgina 22 - Lucy had (and it was a consolation) clung to the belief that, despite of appearances and his own confession, his past life had not been such as to place him without the pale...
Pàgina 79 - All things whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, even so do ye unto them : and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
Pàgina 13 - More mortal than the common births of Fate. Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays His little weapon in the narrower sphere Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss.
Pàgina 50 - She laid her hand upon her heart ; her eye flash'd proud and clear, And firmer grew her haughty tread — " My lord is hidden here ! " And if ye seek to view his form, ye first must tear away, From round his secret...
Pàgina 59 - See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again ; The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise.
Pàgina 36 - THINK of our country's glory, All dimm'd with Afric's tears— Her broad flag stained and gory, With the hoarded guilt of years. Think of the frantic mother, Lamenting for her child, Till falling lashes smother Her cries of anguish wild!

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