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Oxford University Press, 1856
 

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Página 388 - 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 457 - There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end, — (sings) For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Página 36 - For the bodies of those beasts, whose blood is brought into the sanctuary by the high priest for sin, are burned without the camp. Wherefore Jesus also, that he might sanctify the people with his own blood, suffered without the gate.
Página 186 - Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy ; rich, not gaudy : For the apparel oft proclaims the man...
Página 395 - And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out of a place toward the south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times, and they kissed one another, and wept one with another, until David exceeded.
Página 191 - I knew a very wise man so much of Sir Christopher's sentiment, that he believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.
Página 316 - For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
Página 260 - Trajan was ambitious of fame; and as long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than on their benefactors, the thirst of military glory will ever be the vice of the most exalted characters.
Página 87 - My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close Is scattered on the ground — to die ! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see — But none shall weep a tear for me...
Página 88 - My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea — But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

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