The Eagle: A Magazine Support by Members of St. John's College, Volumen28

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W. Metcalfe, 1907

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Página 63 - And nights devoid of ease. Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction
Página 282 - For ye are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus. For as many of you as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female : for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.
Página 81 - I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Página 62 - Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the...
Página 70 - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days : But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise...
Página 31 - O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away.
Página 102 - Keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right : for that shall bring a man peace at the last.
Página 66 - What is this passing scene? A peevish April day ! A little sun — a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away.
Página 279 - There be of them, that have left a name behind them, that their praises might be reported. And some there be, which have no memorial ; who are perished as though they had never been ; And are become as though they had never been born, and their children after them.
Página 65 - Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more. And must the harp of Judah sleep again? Shall I no more reanimate the lay? Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men, Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little space prolong my mournful day! One little lapse suspend thy last decree! I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

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