The National Review, Band 1

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Richard Holt Hutton, Walter Bagehot
Robert Theobald, 1855
 

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Seite 381 - THE wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life...
Seite 382 - I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope through darkness up to God. I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
Seite 403 - COURAGE !" he said, and pointed toward the land, " This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Seite 396 - Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices.
Seite 62 - Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way, 1 love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art!
Seite 395 - Much have I seen and known ; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met ; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move.
Seite 399 - And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. * Icebergs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare * on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the king, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.
Seite 401 - O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O, sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Seite 34 - Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the playplace of our early days ; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.

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