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Strana 373 - With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And...
Strana 154 - FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
Strana 373 - ... stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light ! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn.
Strana 19 - IN that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.
Strana 277 - thou knowest not how impossible it is for one trained to actions of chivalry to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are acting deeds of honor around him.
Strana 275 - But no — but no! the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. His sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman — he falls — he falls!
Strana 287 - Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead ! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillness, and humility : But when the blast of war...
Strana 299 - The victors, assembled in large bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reigned empress of the conflagration which she had raised.