Thoughts on wheels. The climbing boy's soliloquies. Songs of Zion, being imitations of the Psalms. Narratives. Tributary poems. Miscellaneous poems

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Pàgina 75 - HAIL to the Lord's Anointed, Great David's greater Son ; Hail, in the time appointed, His reign on earth begun ; He comes to break oppression, To set the captive free, To take away transgression, And rule in equity.
Pàgina 421 - So when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain. Knowing as I am known, How shall I love that word, And oft repeat before the throne,
Pàgina 345 - I gave him all ; he blessed it, brake, And ate; but gave me part again; Mine was an angel's portion then; For, while I fed with eager haste, That crust was manna to my taste.
Pàgina 235 - 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 235 - Alternate triumphed in his breast; His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear ! Oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall, We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.
Pàgina 363 - THE bird that soars on highest wing Builds on the ground her lowly nest ; And she that doth most sweetly sing Sings in the shade when all things rest : — In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility. 2 When Mary chose the better part, She meekly sat at Jesus...
Pàgina 347 - FRIEND after friend departs : Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying, none were blest.
Pàgina 65 - Confesses he has none. 428. 7s. M. 6 1. The Soul panting for God. 1 As the hart, with eager looks, Panteth for the water-brooks, So my soul, athirst for thee, Pants the living God to see ; When, O when, with filial fear, Lord, shall I to thee draw near ? 2 Why art thou cast down, my soul ? God, thy God, shall make thee whole : Why art thou disquieted ? God shall lift thy fallen head, And his countenance benign Be the saving health of thine.
Pàgina 342 - Thrice welcome, little English flower! My mother-country's white and red, In rose or lily, till this hour, Never to me such beauty spread: Transplanted from thine island-bed, A treasure in a grain of earth, Strange as a spirit from the dead, Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Pàgina 76 - And love, joy, hope, like flowers, Spring in His path to birth : Before Him, on the mountains, Shall peace, the herald, go, And righteousness, in fountains, From hill to valley flow.

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