The London Quarterly Review, Volum 31

Forside
William Lonsdale Watkinson, William Theophilus Davison
H.J. Tresidder, 1869
 

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Side 277 - Yet in the church I had rather speak five words with my understanding, that by my voice I might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue.
Side 277 - What", it will be questioned, "when the sun rises, do you not see a round disk of fire somewhat like a guinea?" O no, no, I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host, crying "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty".
Side 292 - Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth...
Side 319 - For ye may all prophesy one by one, that all may learn, and all may be comforted.
Side 277 - What," it will be questioned, " when the sun rises do you not see a round disk of fire something like a guinea ? Oh ! no ! no ! I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host crying — ' Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty ! ' " I question not my corporeal eye any more than I would question a window concerning a sight.
Side 268 - Schiavonetti from the original Inventions of William Blake. With an Engraved Title Page and a Portrait of Blake by T. Phillips, RA The illustrations are reproduced in photogravure. ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE BOOK OF JOB. Invented and engraved by William Blake.
Side 186 - Nay, never falter : no great deed is done By falterers who ask for certainty. No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, The undivided will to seek the good : 'Tis that compels the elements, and wrings A human music from the indifferent air. The greatest gift the hero leaves his race Is to have been a hero.
Side 322 - And at that time there was a great persecution against the church which was at Jerusalem ; and they were all scattered abroad throughout the regions of Judea and Samaria, except the apostles.
Side 364 - God has made of one blood all the nations of the earth...
Side 507 - OF Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day.

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