The task, a poem. Illustr. by B. Foster

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Page 48 - Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Page 200 - Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense.
Page 202 - He looks abroad into the varied field Of Nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say, 'My Father made them all...
Page 92 - My panting side was charged when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.^ There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by the archers.
Page 66 - Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too ; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Page 201 - Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies!
Page 246 - For He whose car the winds are, and the clouds The dust that waits upon his sultry march When sin hath moved him and his wrath is hot, Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend Propitious, in his chariot paved with love, And what his storms have blasted and defaced For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.
Page 209 - Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! From thee departing, they are lost and rove At random without honour, hope, or peace. From thee is all that soothes the life of man. His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer and his will to serve.
Page 216 - The night was winter in his roughest mood ; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling, splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r Whence all the music.
Page 12 - Stand, never overlook'd our favourite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear; Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.

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