THE POETICAL WORKS OF CRABBE, HEBER, AND POLLOK

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Página 127 - The times have been That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end ; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools.
Página 17 - Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ; star of the east, the horizon adorning, guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.
Página 166 - Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes. Lys. Ah me! for aught that ever I could read. Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But, either it was different in blood; Her. O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low!
Página 198 - Why, why is this ? Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy ; To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions ? No ! to be once in doubt, Is once to be resolved.
Página 17 - Lo, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod ; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God. 3 By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay ; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away.
Página 17 - Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining ; Low lies His Head with the beasts of the stall, Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all.
Página 22 - Long have we roamed in want and pain, Long have we sought thy rest in vain ; Wildered in doubt, in darkness lost, Long have our souls been tempest-tost : Low at thy feet our sins we lay ; Turn not, O Lord, thy guests away.
Página 21 - HOLY, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee ; Holy, holy, holy ! merciful and mighty ! God in three persons, blessed Trinity ! Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore Thee, Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea; Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee, Which wert and art and evermore shalt be...
Página 1 - Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued ? No martial myriads muster in thy gate ; No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait ; No prophet bards, thy glittering courts among, Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song : But lawless Force, and meagre Want is there, And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear ; While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid, Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.

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