The Life of William Cowper

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T.F. Unwin, 1892 - 681 oldal
 

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423. oldal - Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
430. oldal - The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years...
121. oldal - There, if thy Spirit touch the soul, And grace her mean abode, Oh ! with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God ! There like the nightingale she pours Her solitary lays ; Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise.
359. oldal - From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, That tinkle in the withered leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And learning wiser grow without his books.
393. oldal - Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! From thee departing they are lost, and rove At random without honour, hope, or peace. From thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
39. oldal - Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the playplace of our early days ; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
618. oldal - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary...
33. oldal - Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes.
198. oldal - Return, O holy Dove, return, Sweet messenger of rest ! I hate the sins that made thee mourn, And drove thee from my breast.
619. oldal - The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet, gently...

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