Harry Muir, by the author of 'Passages in the life of mrs. Margaret Maitland'.

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Page 252 - O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.
Page 206 - O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; Die to themselves.
Page 161 - Stephen's head in the instant of his seeing the heavens opened, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.
Page 20 - But strong meat belongeth to them that are of full age, even those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil.
Page 127 - But och ! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by every wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.
Page 92 - WHAT man is he, that boasts of fleshly might And vaine assurance of mortality, Which, all so soone as it doth come to fight Against spirituall foes, yields by and by, Or from the field most cowardly doth fly ? Ne let the man ascribe it to his skill, That thorough grace hath gained victory. If any strength we have, it is to ill, But all the good is Gods, both power and eke will.
Page 293 - BEHOLD ! I see the haven nigh at hand To which I meane my wearie course to bend ; Vere...
Page 76 - Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And pretty maids all in a row.
Page 59 - Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace : Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Tho...
Page 206 - Son of man, behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke: yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep, neither shall thy tears run down.

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