The Literary Journal, Volume 1 (Google eBook)

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E. Littell, 1821
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Page 585 - Morning Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Page 328 - The produce of the earth — all that is derived from its surface by the united application of labour, machinery and capital, is divided among three classes of the community, namely, the proprietor of the land, the owner of the stock or capital necessary for its cultivation, and the labourers by whose industry it is cultivated.
Page 499 - Who is a God like unto thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by the transgression of the remnant of his heritage? he retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy.
Page 645 - at the Mount of St Mary's, in the stony stage where I now stand, I have brought you some fine biscuits, baked in the oven of charity, carefully conserved for the chickens of the church, the sparrows of the spirit, and the sweet swallows of salvation.
Page 470 - Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
Page 520 - How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, With mazy error under pendent shades Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed Flowers worthy of Paradise; which not nice art In beds and curious knots, but nature boon Poured forth profuse on hill and dale and plain...
Page 576 - tis too late. Lucio. [To ISAB.] You are too cold. Isab. Too late ? why, no ; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again ° : Well believe this, No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does.
Page 160 - T^EAR no more the heat o' the sun -*- Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o...
Page 616 - Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe, That all was lost.
Page 303 - twould a saint provoke" (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke), " No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead— And, Betty, give this cheek a little red.

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