Blackwood's Magazine, Volum 67

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W. Blackwood., 1850

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Side 306 - Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Side 616 - And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons; I have heard, The cock that is the trumpet to the morn Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day...
Side 306 - Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear...
Side 480 - O, that the slave had forty thousand lives ! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.
Side 505 - I do perceive here a divided duty: To you I am bound for life, and education; My life, and education, both do learn me How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your daughter: But here's my husband; And so much duty as my mother show'd To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor, my lord.
Side 63 - ... to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries. His plan is original ; and it is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery, a circumnavigation of charity.
Side 304 - Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And ev'n those ills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms...
Side 619 - CALL it not vain ¡—they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies : Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.
Side 389 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Side 490 - Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons, Which, at the first, are scarce found to distaste ; But, with a little act upon the blood, Burn like the mines of sulphur.

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