The Book of Gems: Pomfret to Bloomfield

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Samuel Carter Hall
Saunders and Otley, 1837 - English poetry
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Page 99 - THESE, as they change, ALMIGHTY FATHER, these Are but the varied GOD ! The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy.
Page 101 - When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression.
Page 18 - THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye ; My noonday walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend.
Page 283 - 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 is...
Page 220 - Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too ; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Page 282 - Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe to greet The purpling east.
Page 156 - A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Page 132 - Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help...
Page 43 - tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Page 166 - To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove: But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love.

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