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Page 152 - As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth : For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone ; and the place thereof shall know it no more.
Page 20 - ... bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! \ Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid, Low i
Page 20 - Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffering worth...
Page 20 - Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!
Page 200 - E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, His seal was on thy brow. Dust to its narrow house beneath ! Soul to its place on high ! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die.
Page 32 - I would not live alway ; no — welcome the tomb, Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom; There, sweet be my rest, till he bid me arise, To hail him in triumph descending the skies.
Page 204 - There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell ; But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell...
Page 166 - Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
Page 170 - And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint -like, Looking downward from the skies.