The Centennial Magazine: An Australian Monthly

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Centennial magazine office, 1890

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12. oldal - ... accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.
80. oldal - Then none was for a party ; Then all were for the state ; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great ; Then lands were fairly portioned ; Then spoils were fairly sold : The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old.
42. oldal - Or what king, going to make war against another king, sitteth not down first and consulteth whether he be able with ten thousand to meet him that cometh against him with twenty thousand?
79. oldal - I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 0 solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own.
77. oldal - THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER" From " Lcve in a Village " THERE was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee; He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he; And this the burden of his song forever used to be: — ''I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me.
18. oldal - Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.
113. oldal - Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me ! You would play upon me ; you would seem to know my stops ; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery ; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass : and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ ; yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe ? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
80. oldal - Not wished to be, to hinder would not deign. Each drop uncounted in a storm of rain Hath its own mission, and is duly sent To its own leaf or blade, not idly spent 'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main. The very shadow of an insect's wing, For which the violet cared not while it stayed Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing, Proved that the sun was shining by its shade.
139. oldal - THEY are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable Summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds.
28. oldal - ... in the present state of knowledge, politics, so far from being a science, is one of the most backward of all the arts ; and the only safe course for the legislator is to look upon his craft as consisting in the adaptation of temporary contrivances to temporary emergencies.«* His business is to follow the age, and not at all to attempt to lead it.

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