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Such eyes as may have looked from heaven, but never were raised to it be-fore!
Sunflowers by the sides of brooks,
Turn'd to the sun.
Sweet flowers alone can say what passion fears revealing.
That holy shame, which ne'er forgets
What clear renown it us'd to wear;
Whose blush remains when virtue sets,
To show her sunshine has been there.
That star on life's tremulous ocean.
The cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
The Christian religion, rightly understood, is the deepest and choicest price of philosophy.
The fresh and buoyant sense of being that bounds in youth's yet careless breast.
The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns.
The love of gold that meanest rage,
And latest folly of man's sinking age,
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,
While nobler passions wage their heated strife,
Comes skulking last with selfishness and fear
And dies collecting lumber in the rear!
Remembrance gives, when the fix'd dart
Is stirred thus in the wound again.
Then fill the bowl--way with gloom!
Our joys shall always last;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,
And Mem'ry gild the past.
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide.
There are dreadful punishments enacted against thieves; but it were much better to make such good provisions, by which every man might be put in a method how to live, and so to be preserved from the fatal necessity of stealing and dying for it.
There is nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream.
There's nothing true but heaven.
They may rail at this life--from the hour I began it,
I've found it a life full of kindness and bliss;
And, until they can show me some happier planet,
More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
That I could live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself?--no--no.
Thinking of thee, still sthee, till thought grew pain.
This moment is a flower too fair and brief.
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas.
Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee!
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine!
Thou little know'st
What he can brave, who, born and nurst
In danger's paths, has dared her worst!
Upon whose ear the signal-word
Of strife and death is hourly breaking;
Who sleeps with head upon the sword
His fever'd hand must grasp in waking.
Though it is pleasant weaving nets, it is wiser to make cages.
Through the shadowy past, like a tomb-searcher, memory ran, lifting each shroud that time had cast o'er buried hopes.
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