Hymns and Hymn Makers

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A. & C. Black, 1898 - 195 pages
 

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Page 13 - The devout people kept watch in the Church, ready to die with their Bishop Thy servant. There my mother Thy handmaid, bearing a chief part of those anxieties and watchings, lived for prayer.
Page 41 - HARK, the glad sound ! The Saviour comes, The Saviour promised long ! Let every heart prepare a throne, And every voice a song.
Page 56 - He shall be strong to sanctify The poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down In meeker adoration : Nor ever shall he be in praise By wise or good forsaken : Named softly, as the household name Of one whom God hath taken. With quiet sadness, and no gloom, I learn to think upon him ; With meekness that is gratefulness, To God whose heaven hath won him — Who suffered once the madness-cloud...
Page 76 - Why should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die,* Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?
Page 28 - Ireland, who was then chief master of that school ; where the beauties of his pretty behaviour and wit shined and became so eminent and lovely in this his innocent age, that he seemed to be marked out for piety, and to become the care of Heaven, and of a particular good angel to guard and guide him.
Page 55 - Where is the blessedness I knew When first I saw the Lord ? Where is the soul-refreshing view Of Jesus and His word ? 3 What peaceful hours I once enjoyed ! How sweet their memory still ! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
Page 35 - Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charmed, For, letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upward to the sky, And oft with holy hymns he charmed their ears (A music more melodious than the spheres). For David left him, when he went to rest, His lyre; and after him he sung the best.
Page 78 - Though sleep have clos'd her infant's eye ; For should he wake, and find her gone, She knows she could not bear his moan. But I am weaker than a child, And Thou art more than mother dear ; Without Thee Heaven were but a wild : How can I live without Thee here...
Page 69 - Throw yourself rather, my dear Sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you had but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the Booksellers. They are Turks and Tartars, when they have poor authors at their beck. Hitherto you have been at arm's length from them.
Page 96 - Only remembered by what I have done. Needs there the praise of the love-written record, The name and the epitaph graved on the stone ? The things we have lived for — let them be our story, We ourselves but remembered by what we have done.

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