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Σελίδα 199 - Seven years, my Lord, have now past, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour.
Σελίδα 200 - Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chilness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
Σελίδα 202 - Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well...
Σελίδα 13 - ... devout prayer to that eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases...
Σελίδα 204 - I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. (Laying his hand on his sword.) Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me. This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
Σελίδα 6 - ... that by labour and intent study, which I take to be my portion in- this life, joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.
Σελίδα 201 - BLINDNESS ] When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, • And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, 6 ' Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?
Σελίδα 203 - It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well — Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man.