Short stories from the history of Switzerland, by the author of 'Amy's trials', from the Fr. of G. Favey

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Strana 43 - We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbour and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky: The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves; a road To bring us daily nearer God.
Strana 146 - And thou, mine honour'd lord and true, Bear on, bear nobly on; We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won.
Strana 178 - YE hermits blest, ye holy maids, The nearest heaven on earth, Who talk with God in shadowy glades, Free from rude care and mirth ; To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things, The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale...
Strana 146 - And bid me not depart,' she cried, ' My Rudolph, say not so ! This is no time to quit thy side ; Peace, peace, I cannot go. Hath the world aught for me to fear When death is on thy brow ? The world ! what means it ? — mine is lure — I will not leave thee now.
Strana 179 - His features well, And known him for the Christ by proof; Such proof as they are sure to find, Who spend with Him their happy days, Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind Ever in tune for love and praise. Then, potent with the spell of Heaven, Go, and thine erring brother gain, Entice him home to be forgiven, Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.
Strana 179 - To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things, The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale Say, when in pity ye have...
Strana 146 - And bid me not depart," she cried ; " My Rudolph ! say not so ! This is no time to quit thy side — Peace ! peace ! I cannot go. Hath the world aught for me to fear, When death is on thy brow ? The world ! what means it ? Mine is here — I will not leave thee now.
Strana 147 - And were not these high words to flow from woman's breaking heart ? Through all that night of bitterest woe, she bore her lofty part ; But oh ! with such a glazing eye, with such a curdling cheek, — Love, Love ! of mortal agony, thou, only thou, shouldst speak ! The wind rose high, but with it rose her voice that he might hear-: Perchance that dark hour brought repose to happy bosoms near ; While she sat pining with despair beside his tortured form, And pouring her deep soul in prayer forth on...

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