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84. oldal - And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed ? but where are the nine ? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger.
138. oldal - I have pass'da miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a christian faithful man,' I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; So full of dismal terror was the time.
209. oldal - Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena To Sextus nought spake he ; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. "Oh Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!
108. oldal - Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever One grand, sweet song.
404. oldal - Man! while in thy early years,. How prodigal of time! Mis-spending all thy precious hours Thy glorious, youthful prime! Alternate Follies take the sway; Licentious Passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That Man was made to mourn.
41. oldal - WE scatter seeds with careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more ; But for a thousand years Their fruit appears, In weeds that mar the land, Or healthful store. The deeds we do, the words we say, — Into still air they seem to fleet, We count them ever past ; But they shall last, — In the dread judgment they And we shall meet.
366. oldal - And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream ; So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed, Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.
366. oldal - So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed, Suffers — recoils — then thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught ! * MARIA Go WEN BROOKS (MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE).