The Viceregal Speeches and Addresses, Lectures and Poems, of the Late Earl of Carlisle, K. G.

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McGlashan & Gill, 1866 - 483 страници

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Страница ciii - 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.
Страница 382 - Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please. And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne; View him with scornful, yev with jealous eyes.
Страница 119 - At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
Страница 375 - Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest; The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Страница 375 - For forms of government let fools contest, Whate'er is best administered is best.
Страница 388 - Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent: Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Страница 119 - tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep...
Страница cxiv - Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th...
Страница cv - This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy ; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Страница 388 - What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam; Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green; Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, To that which warbles through the vernal wood! The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line...

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