The history of England [by J.A. Hessey].

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Page 81 - Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs.
Page 191 - What strings symphonious tremble in the air. What strains of vocal transport round her play ? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear : They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Page 187 - Though, fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears...
Page 137 - Giving no offence in any thing, that the ministry be not blamed; but in all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments...
Page 190 - Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Page 191 - That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me, with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair and sceptred care, To triumph, and to die, are mine.
Page 191 - Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear.
Page 188 - King ! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
Page 188 - Eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a...
Page 189 - Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring...

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