Publications of the Ipswich Historical Society, Volúmenes25-29

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The Society, 1925
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Página 215 - God that lifts our comforts high, Or sinks them in the grave ; He gives, and, blessed be his name ! He takes but what he gave. 4 Peace, all our angry passions, then ; Let each rebellious sigh Be silent at his sovereign will, And every murmur die.
Página 181 - As you are now so once was I; As I am now so you must be, Prepare for death and follow me.
Página 159 - Yet again we hope to meet thee, When the day of life is fled ; Then in heaven with joy to greet thee, Where no farewell tear is shed ! 144.
Página 24 - London measure: but when I hear a nugiperous gentledame inquire, what dress the Queen is in this week; what the nudiustertian fashion of the court; I mean the very newest: with egg to be in it in all haste, whatever it be; I look at her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the product of a quarter of a cipher, the epitome of nothing...
Página 212 - WHY do we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms? 'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends To call them to his arms.
Página 49 - Beyond the flight of time, Beyond the reign of death, There surely is some blessed clime Where life is not a breath. Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire.
Página 201 - E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, His seal was on thy brow. Dust to its narrow house beneath ! Soul to its place on high ! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die.
Página 51 - FRIEND after friend departs : Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts, That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our only rest, Living or dying, none were blest.
Página 136 - The Reaper said, and smiled ; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.
Página 41 - I look at her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the product of a quarter of a cipher, the epitome of nothing, fitter to be kickt, if she were of a kickable substance, than either honored or humored.

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