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ACROSTIC bell Bismarck blood blue bring brother Captain cause changed Charity Cities comfort dead death deed Double English face fair fame fashion fate father fire flow flowers fool Golden grace grove half hand Hard head heart heaven hero hope Indian King lady land letter light live LONDON Look Lord lost man's March never night noble o'er once pain peace Poor proud Queen quoth race Remember rest river safe Saved seen shining shore showed SOUGHT sound sure Sweet tell Thank thee thing thou thought thousand town true Turn wall waves weakness whole wild
23. oldal - You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head — Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.
16. oldal - For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand ; And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer : Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing.
28. oldal - Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
16. oldal - Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 'Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.
18. oldal - But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.
28. oldal - Till every pulse beat true to airs divine ; Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.
2. oldal - twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt...