The Remains of Henry Kirke White of Nottingham with an Account of His Life

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Longmans, 1816 - 877 pages
 

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Page 75 - Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air, pursues the flying storm, Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens ; Or, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, Sweeps the long tract of day.
Page 178 - we know on whom we have believed ; and we are persuaded, that he is able to keep that which we have committed unto him against the great day.
Page 310 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low : So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Page 275 - O put thy trust in God : for I will yet thank him, which is the help of my countenance, and my God.
Page 37 - Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat ? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.
Page 310 - So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Page 323 - In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; Her neatly...
Page 36 - Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.
Page 350 - WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy.
Page 374 - I have hail'd the gray morn high, On the blue mountain's misty brow, And tried to tune my little reed To hymns of harmony. But never could I tune my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, As when upon the ocean shore I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

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