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Page 153 - Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore. What future bliss he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest.
Page 178 - When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
Page 179 - Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile.) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart; — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Page 178 - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!
Page 482 - Will you be ready with all faithful diligence to banish and drive away all erroneous and strange doctrines contrary to God's word...
Page 178 - And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary!
Page 178 - ... tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that loe'd me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary.
Page 166 - And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine.