The Yale Literary Magazine, Volume 5

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Page 180 - I will be wise, And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannize Without reproach or check.
Page 373 - At this moment, painful as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small moss in fructification irresistibly caught my eye. I mention this to show from what trifling circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation ; for though the whole plant was not larger than the top of one of my fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, and capsula, without admiration. Can that Being...
Page 87 - But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever...
Page 345 - Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet. For every pelting, petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but thunder...
Page 175 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long...
Page 328 - There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: " the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.
Page 434 - To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold...
Page 297 - Till warn'd, or by experience taught, she learn, That not to know at large of things remote From use, obscure and subtle, bat to know That which before us lies in daily life, Is the prime wisdom...
Page 392 - The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Page 415 - Tis the middle of night by the castle clock , And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ; Tu — whit ! - — Tu — whoo ! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew.

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