The Irish Monthly, Volume 12

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Page 178 - But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
Page 363 - Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; Beyond the visible world She soars to seek, (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes : nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.
Page 106 - Now know ye, that the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, in consideration...
Page 390 - The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone — alone ; Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side. The dragons of the rock are sleeping,. Sleep that wakes not for our weeping ; Dig the grave, and make it ready, Lay me on my true love's body. Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors' sides aright ; Many a day the three before me On their linked bucklers bore me.
Page 133 - Dante is the spokesman of the Middle Ages ; the Thought they lived by stands here, in everlasting music. These sublime ideas of his, terrible and beautiful, are the fruit of the Christian Meditation of all the good men who had gone before him.
Page 360 - It must be remembered, that this great style itself is artificial in the highest degree ; it presupposes in the spectator, a cultivated and prepared artificial state of mind. It is an absurdity, therefore, to suppose that we are born with this taste, though we are with the seeds of it, which, by the heat and kindly influence of his genius, may be ripened in us.
Page 217 - U'leachan dubh 0 ! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Page 584 - A LIGHT of blameless laughter, fancy-bred, Soft-souled and glad and kind as love or sleep, Fades, and sweet mirth's own eyes are fain to weep Because her blithe and gentlest bird is dead. Weep, elves and fairies all, that never shed Tear yet for mortal mourning : you that keep The doors of dreams whence nought of ill may creep, Mourn once for one whose lips your honey fed. Let waters of the Golden River steep The rose-roots whence his grave blooms rosy-red And murmuring of Hyblsean hives be deep...
Page 388 - Harp, take my bosom's burthen on thy string, And, turning it to sad, sweet melody, Waste and disperse it on the careless air. Air, take the harp-string's burthen on thy breast, And, softly thrilling soulward through the sense. Bring my love's heart again in tune with mine.
Page 147 - Let me not look on as the child dies." And sitting thus afar, she burst into tears. God heard the cry of the boy, and an angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, "What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heeded the cry of the boy where he is. Come, lift up the boy and hold him by the hand, for I will make a great nation of him.

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