#EnglishWriters
Hark my soul! it is the Lord; ’Tis Thy Saviour, hear His word; Jesus speaks and speaks to thee, ‘Say poor sinner, lovst thou me? ’I deliver’d thee when bound,
To tell the Saviour all my wants, How pleasing is the task! Nor less to praise Him when He gr… Beyond what I can ask. My laboring spirit vainly seeks
(Judges, VI.25) Jesus! whose blood so freely strea… To satisfy the law’s demand; By Thee from guilt and wrath rede… Before the Father’s face I stand.
Naples, too credulous, ah! boast n… The sweet-voiced Siren buried on… That, when Parthenope deceas’d, s… Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic gr… For still she lives, but has excha…
Beware, my friend! of crystal broo… Or fountain, lest that hideous hoo… Thy nose, thou chance to see; Narcissus’ fate would then be thin… And self-detested thou wouldst pin…
Muse—hide his name of whom I sing… Lest his surviving house thou brin… For his sake into scorn, Nor speak the school from which he… The much or little that he knew,
Maria! I have every good For thee wished many a time, Both sad and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme. To wish thee fairer is no need,
Praise in old time the sage Prome… Who stole ethereal radiance from t… But greater he, whose bold inventi… To emulate the fiery bolts of Jov…
Silent I sat, dejected, and alone… Making in thought the public woes… When, first, arose the image in my… Of England’s sufferings by that s… How death, his fun’ral torch and s…
Thou mayst of double ignorance boa… Who know’st not that thou nothing…
(Jeremiah, XXIII.6) My God, how perfect are Thy ways! But mine polluted are; Sin twines itself about my praise, And slides into my prayer.
The beams of April, ere it goes, A worm, scarce visible, disclose; All winter long content to dwell The tenant of his native shell. The same prolific season gives
What virtue, or what mental grace But men unqualified and base Will boast it their possession? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart,
There’s not an echo round me, But I am glad should learn, How pure a fire has found me, The love with which I burn. For none attends with pleasure
