Two Years Ago, Volume 1

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Ticknor and Fields, 1857 - Cholera - 540 pages
 

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Page 417 - And further, by these, my son, be admonished : of making many books there is no end ; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.
Page 409 - What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself disown; It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone Whose prelude held...
Page 92 - A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the Holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow.
Page 339 - Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever One grand, sweet song.
Page 5 - If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down from hence: for it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee: And in their hands they shall bear thee up, Lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.
Page 318 - How happy could I be with either, Were t' other dear charmer away 1
Page 453 - BLESSED is he whose unrighteousness is forgiven : and whose sin is covered. Blessed is the man unto whom the LORD imputeth no sin : and in whose spirit there is no guile.
Page 409 - Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
Page 449 - ... that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in his philosophy.
Page 454 - When I kept silence, my bones waxed old through my roaring all the day long. For day and night thy hand was heavy upon me: my moisture is turned into the drought of summer.

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