Obiter Dicta: Second Series, 1. kötet

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C. Scribner's Sons, 1891 - 291 oldal
 

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106. oldal - Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie : His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
50. oldal - Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine: But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me...
255. oldal - I've been tossed like the driven foam; But now, proud world ! I'm going home. Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; To Grandeur with his wise grimace; To upstart Wealth's averted eye; To supple Office, low and high ; To crowded halls, to court and street ; To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; To those who go, and those who come ; Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home.
123. oldal - James, whose skill in physic will be long remembered ; and with David Garrick, whom I hoped to have gratified with this character of our common friend. But what are the hopes of man ? I am disappointed by that stroke of death which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure.
253. oldal - For Nature beats in perfect tune, And rounds with rhyme her every rune, Whether she work in land or sea, Or hide underground her alchemy. Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, Or dip thy paddle in the lake, But it carves the bow of beauty there, And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.
13. oldal - With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
101. oldal - Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God afraid of me: Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne, Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone.
132. oldal - Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will ; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high — What are acres ? what are houses ? Only dirt, or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste : Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother, — You can hang or drown at last.
97. oldal - Woe is me, my mother, that thou hast borne me a man of strife and a man of contention to the whole earth ! I have neither lent on usury, nor men have lent to me on usury; yet every one of them doth curse me.
9. oldal - HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

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