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Page 287 - And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat...
Page 4 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
Page 218 - A light broke in upon my brain, — It was the carol of a bird ; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard...
Page 441 - Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell...
Page 59 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his...
Page 95 - Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart ; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange ; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.
Page 287 - But the goat on which the lot fell to be the scapegoat, shall be presented alive before the LORD, to make an atonement with him, and to let him go for a scapegoat into the wilderness.
Page 15 - Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, ZtoT) p,ou, ads d^aira>. By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each /Egean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks...
Page 439 - Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! ADA ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, And then we parted, — not as now we part, But with a hope. — Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me ; and on high The winds lift up their voices : I depart, Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.