The Irish Monthly, Volume 18McGlashan & Gill, 1890 |
Table des matières
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| 210 | |
| 222 | |
| 225 | |
| 263 | |
| 276 | |
| 281 | |
| 292 | |
| 309 | |
| 337 | |
| 343 | |
| 500 | |
| 513 | |
| 535 | |
| 555 | |
| 571 | |
| 588 | |
| 592 | |
| 600 | |
| 609 | |
| 617 | |
| 639 | |
| 657 | |
Autres éditions - Tout afficher
Expressions et termes fréquents
Anne Dane asked Augustine beautiful Bishop Blake bless Brother Azarias Burns and Oates Catholic Catholic Truth Society child Church cried darling dear death Divine door Dora Dora's Dromore Dublin eyes face faith Father O'Neill feel Francis girl give glory Grace grandpapa hand happy head heard heart Heaven holy hope Ireland Irish Jesuit KINGSCOURT kissed knew Lady Ashfield letter Limerick lips live London looked Lord Ashfield Madge Mary Michael Blake mind Miss Molly mother Mount Melleray Neil never Newry night perhaps poor pray prayer present priest Rome Rostrevor saints seemed Sir Eustace sister Sisters of Mercy Skibbereen Slieve Donard smiling soul story strange street sure sweet Sylvia Atherstone tell things thou thought told Violet Hill voice wish woman wonder words young
Fréquemment cités
Page 601 - And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him.
Page 295 - To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us, To guilt ye let us heedless go, Then leave repentance fierce to wring us: A moment's guilt, an age of woe!
Page 296 - Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Page 477 - For winter is now past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have appeared in our land, the time of pruning is come, the voice of the turtle is heard in our land : the fig-tree hath put forth her green figs, the vines in flower yield their sweet smell. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come.
Page 99 - Unto this last as unto thee ; and when, for earth's severed multitudes of the wicked and the weary, there shall be holier reconciliation than that of the narrow home, and calm economy, where the Wicked cease — not from trouble, but from troubling — and the Weary are at rest.
Page 258 - And has he left his birds and flowers? And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours Will he not come again? And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh, while my brother with me played, Would I had loved him more.
Page 654 - May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace — Amen!
Page 357 - They only the victory win Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us...
Page 357 - I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life — The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife...
Page 367 - My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are...