Biography of the Blind: Or The Lives of Such as Have Distinguished Themselves as Poets, Philosophers, Artists Etc

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Showell, 1838 - 300 oldal

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9. oldal - O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head. Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies: The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
20. oldal - Purification in the old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.
288. oldal - Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe: Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.
i. oldal - Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine...
256. oldal - E'en children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
184. oldal - Let there be light, and light was over all," Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
16. oldal - Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Eight onward.
288. oldal - His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
174. oldal - No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn: Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them...
xvi. oldal - My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ; Ah, that maternal smile, it answers yes...

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