Life and letters of Frederick W. Robertson, ed. by S.A. Brooke. People's ed, Volume 1

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Page 179 - Master, I have brought unto thee my son, which hath a dumb spirit; 18 And wheresoever he taketh him, he teareth him: and he foameth, and gnasheth with his teeth, and pineth away : and I spake to thy disciples that they should cast him out; and they could not. 19 He answereth him, and saith, O faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? how long shall I suffer you? bring him unto me.
Page 210 - That the blood of all the prophets, which was shed from the foundation of the world, may be required of this generation...
Page 257 - Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
Page 310 - The stately Priory was reared ; And Wharf, as he moved along, To matins joined a mournful voice, Nor failed at even-song. And the Lady prayed in heaviness That looked not for relief ! But slowly did her succour come, And a patience to her grief. Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our friend ! XXII.
Page 279 - tis too true; How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot's cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burden!
Page 15 - We join no feeling and attach no form! As if the soldier died without a wound; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed; As though he had no wife to pine for him, No God to judge him!
Page 44 - The tears into his eyes were brought. And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
Page 311 - Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant ; \ More life and fuller, that we want ; No heart in which was healthful breath, Has ever truly longed for death.
Page 15 - And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which We join no feeling and attach no form ! As if the soldier died without a wound ; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang...

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