The Boy's Yearly Book

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Page 475 - He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me : and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.
Page 542 - God ! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live.
Page 165 - If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone...
Page 143 - Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad.' ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in, stones, and good in every thing.
Page 36 - Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold : A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled ! — Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face : What was thy name and station, age and race...
Page 533 - With salt-spray caught below; That ship must heed her master's beck, Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck As if they trod the land. Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak Of Northern ice may peel; The sunken rock and coral peak May grate along her keel; And know we well the painted shell We give to wind and wave, Must float, the sailor's citadel, Or sink, the sailor's grave. Ho! strike away the bars and blocks, And set the good ship free! Why lingers on these dusty rocks The young bride...
Page 165 - HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath...
Page 280 - Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow : Work with a stout heart and resolute will...
Page 542 - Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, Here earth and water seem to strive again ; Not chaos-like together crush'd and bruis'd, But, as the world, harmoniously confus'd : Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Page 542 - Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn. Let India boast her plants, nor envy we The weeping amber or the balmy tree, While by our oaks the precious loads are born, And realms commanded which those trees adorn. Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, Tho...

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