Colonel Fortescue's daughter, Volume 2

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Page 25 - How beautiful this night ! The balmiest sigh Which vernal Zephyrs breathe in Evening's ear Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which Love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
Page 101 - Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; Is this...
Page 3 - SOME murmur, when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue. And some with thankful love are filled, If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy gild The darkness of their night.
Page 37 - Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
Page 47 - Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ. Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here!
Page 74 - tis not the sophists vex him; There is some root of suffering in himself, Some secret and unfollow'd vein of woe, Which makes the time look black and sad to him.
Page 47 - Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand ! Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is ! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come ! Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy ; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Page 195 - Of delicate flow'ring, as quickly lost ; For the stalks are fed by the moon's cold beams, And the leaves are woven like woof of dreams By Night's keen breath, and a glance of the Sun Like dreams will scatter them every one. Hurra ! the lake is a league of glass ! Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass. Off we shoot, and poise and wheel, And swiftly turn upon scoring heel ; And our flying sandals chirp and sing Like a flock of swallows upon the wing.
Page 37 - Out of this earthy change and weary strife : To catch the hours that one by one go by, And write the Cross upon them as they fly.
Page 104 - ... the autumnal wood Is thundering like a storm. So is it with our humbled souls Down in the thought of God, Scarce conscious in their sober peace Of the wild storms abroad. To think of Thee is almost prayer, And is outspoken praise ; And pain can even passive thoughts To actual worship raise. O Lord ! I live always in pain, My life's sad undersong, Pain in itself not hard to bear, But hard to bear so long.

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