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Abbey Account American asked Author beautiful better bless brought Byron called Charles child Church classes comfort David Brewster dear death earth Edition England English Engravings entered factory feel five friends girl give grave half Hall hand hear heard heart Heaven Henry History hope human hundred Italy James John kind labour ladies land liberty light live LL.D London Lord maker manufactures master miles mills monument Natural nearly never night once operatives oppression painful passed persons play poor Portrait present question rest round seemed seen Sheep shillings side spirit stand story suffering tell things Thomas thought thousand tion told Translated Travel true truth turned United vols walls whole wish young
69. oldal - The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.
243. oldal - As one, who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart ; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you...
190. oldal - There the wicked cease from troubling; And there the weary are at rest. There the prisoners are at ease together ; They hear not the voice of the taskmaster.
210. oldal - Poor people, said a sensible old nurse to us once, do not bring up their children ; they drag them up. The little careless darling of the wealthier nursery, in their hovel is transformed betimes into a premature reflecting person No one has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth while to coax it, to soothe it, to toss it up and down, to humour it.
227. oldal - Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
211. oldal - It was never sung to — -no one ever told to it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged up, to live or to die as it happened. It had no young dreams. It broke at once into the iron realities of life.
211. oldal - It is the rival, till it can be the co-operator, for food with the parent. It is never his mirth, his diversion, his solace ; it never makes him young again, with recalling his young times. The children of the very poor have no young times.
210. oldal - The innocent prattle of his children takes out the sting of a man's poverty. But the children of the very poor do not prattle. It is none of the least frightful features in that condition, that there is no childishness in its dwellings. Poor people, said a sensible old nurse to us once, do not bring up their children ; they drag them up.