Blackwood's Magazine

الغلاف الأمامي
W. Blackwood, 1839

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الصفحة 309 - Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a...
الصفحة 311 - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
الصفحة 308 - And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell, Of every star that Heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
الصفحة 481 - From Greenland's icy mountains ; From India's coral strand ; Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand ; From many an ancient river ; From many a palmy plain ; They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain.
الصفحة 309 - HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise...
الصفحة 178 - Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon!
الصفحة 523 - If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.
الصفحة 130 - ... twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ! Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail...
الصفحة 130 - A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure?
الصفحة 130 - Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

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