The Pocket magazine of classic and polite literature. [Continued as] The Pocket magazine

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Página 57 - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep ! He hath awakened from the dream of life. 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. We decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. He has outsoared the shadow of our night...
Página 190 - ... but the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark...
Página 275 - The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world.
Página 113 - That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days : So full of dismal terror was the time.
Página 129 - Oh! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, And the roof rings with voices light and loud: Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow! I am content to die — but, oh! not now!
Página 244 - OH ! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen ! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart. Bright lily of the wave ! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell...
Página 179 - And whereas the Laws of England are the birthright of the people thereof, and all the Kings and Queens, who shall ascend the Throne of this realm, ought to administer the Government of the same according to the said laws, and all their officers and ministers ought to serve them respectively according to the same...
Página 129 - Summer is gone ; and autumn's soberer hues Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo ! and winds his eager horn. " Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ! Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; I am content to die, — but oh ! not now...
Página 222 - He hung his head ; each nobler aim And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept ! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
Página 236 - The hoary fool, who many days Has struggled with continued sorrow, Renews his hope, and blindly lays The desperate bet upon to-morrow. To-morrow comes ; 'tis noon, 'tis night ; This day like all the former flies : Yet on he runs, to seek delight To-morrow, till to-night he dies.

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