The Seasons: A Poem. Compared with the London and Edinburgh Ed

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Clark & Maynard, 1869
 

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Page 155 - THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these, Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy.
Page 133 - Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain.
Page 155 - THESE, as they change, ALMIGHTY FATHER, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of THEE. Forth in the pleasing Spring THY beauty walks, THY tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart is joy.
Page 134 - How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty.
Page 133 - In vain for him th' officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold; Nor friends, nor sacred home.
Page 157 - tis nought to me: Since GOD is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where he vital breathes there must be joy.
Page 156 - A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to him whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Page 21 - Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive? when at hand, Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace; Throws out the snowdrop, and the crocus first...
Page 155 - And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter, awful thou, with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. Majestic darkness, on the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast.
Page 153 - Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, Thy sober Autumn fading into age, And pale concluding Winter comes at last And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life?

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