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Page 119 - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such...
Page 119 - Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! ^ A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own: how reason reels!
Page 36 - Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Page 149 - For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Page 242 - W. Partridge. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. ; gilt, 7s. 6d ; morocco, 10s. 6d. UPWARD AND ONWARD ; a Thought Book for the Threshold of Active Life. By the same Author.
Page 49 - SCORN not the slightest word or deed, Nor deem it void of power ; There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed, That waits its natal hour.
Page 78 - Whatever passes as a cloud between The mental eye of faith and things unseen, Causing that brighter world to disappear, Or seem less lovely, and its hope less dear ; This is our world, our idol, though it bear Affection's impress, or devotion's air.
Page 241 - Workers in Fields, Farms, and Factories. By E. Paxton Hood. 8vo., 7s. 6d. Bye-Path Meadow. By the same Author. Coloured Frontispiece. 8vo., 3s. 6d. Blind Amos and his Velvet Principles; or, Proverbs and Parables for the Young Folk. By the same Author. New Edition, is.
Page 206 - PLEASURES lie thickest where no pleasures seem: There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground But holds some joy, of silence or of sound, Some sprite begotten of a summer dream; The very meanest things are made supreme With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand But moves a bright and million-peopled land, And hath its Edens and its Eves, I deem, For Love, though blind himself, a curious eye Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of things, And touched mine ear with power.