Beauties of literature, selected from various authors by H. Waylett

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Page 60 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Page 4 - If the Spring put forth no blossoms, in Summer there will be no beauty, and in Autumn. no fruit. So if youth be trifled away without improvement, manhood will be contemptible, and old age miserable.
Page 8 - Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal : But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Page 57 - A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place...
Page 64 - Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Page 66 - His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud ; and, wave your tops, ye Pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Page 58 - But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment, tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Page 32 - First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
Page 51 - If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies; And they are fools who roam : The world has nothing to bestow ; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home.
Page 44 - I felt such undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion.

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