The Wanderer of Switzerland, and Other Poems

J. Ballantyne, 1813 - 175 pàgines

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Pàgina 80 - THERE is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.
Pàgina 169 - ONCE, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man — and who was he ? Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee.
Pàgina 170 - The changing spirits' rise and fall, We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all. He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er ; Enjoyed,— but his delights are fled ; Had friends, — his friends are now no more ; And foes, — his foes are dead. He...
Pàgina 171 - 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.
Pàgina 73 - The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day ! The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The soul, immortal as its Sire, SHALL NEVER DIE!
Pàgina 76 - LIVE ! — repent and pray ; In dust thine infamy deplore ; There yet is mercy ; — go thy way, And sin no more.
Pàgina 75 - Ah! think not, hope not, fool, to find A friend in me. •By all the terrors of the tomb. Beyond the power of tongue to tell...
Pàgina 124 - Welcome to a Land of Rest ! Thus the choir of angels sing, As they bear the soul on high, While with hallelujahs ring All the regions of the sky.
Pàgina 84 - All in awful judgment rise. — 0 then, innocently brave, 1 will wrestle with the wave ; Lo ! Commerce spreads the daring sail, And yokes her naval chariots to the gale. " Blow, ye breezes ! — gently blowing, Waft me to that happy shore, Where, from fountains ever flowing, Indian realms their treasures pour ; Thence returning, poor in health, Rich in honesty and wealth, O'er thee, my dear paternal soil, I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.
Pàgina 164 - She triumphs ; — the winds and the waters conspire To spread her invincible name ; — The universe rings with her fame ; — But the cries of the fatherless mix with her praise, And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays...

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