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Page 137 - The grand transition, that there lives and works A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
Page 137 - Ross," each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate ; Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
Page 41 - Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Page 68 - In a word, the almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees in these peculiar villages...
Page 32 - God of the forest's solemn shade ! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.
Page 138 - The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. Is there a variance ? Enter but his door, Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.
Page 137 - Rules universal nature. Not a flower But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The forms in which He sprinkles all the earth.
Page 41 - That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer That sucks its sweets.
Page 137 - Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods you mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost...