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Página 16 - O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Re-enter PANTHINO.
Página 263 - Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; That nothing walks with aimless feet ; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete...
Página 206 - He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Página 102 - Pitch thy behaviour low ; thy projects, high ; So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be. Sink not in spirit : who aimeth at the sky, Shoots higher much, than he that means a tree.
Página 298 - tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for madness ruled the hour), Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made.
Página 133 - To ruffle it ; and daily duties paid Hardly at first, at length will bring repose To the sad mind that studies to perform them.
Página 44 - And talking to himself, first met his sight : " You must begone," said Death, "these walks are mine." Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death ; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign forever over all.
Página 119 - The darkest night that shrouds the sky Of beauty hath a share ; The blackest heart hath signs to tell That God still lingers there.
Página 67 - tis we who die : They only live, whose life is immortality. The loved, but not the lost, Why should our ceaseless tears be shed . O'er the cold turf that wraps the dead, As if their names were crossed From out the Book of life ? Ah, no ! 'Tis we who scarcely live, that linger still below.