Within a bony labrinthean cave, Reached by the pulse of the aerial wave, This sibyl, sweet, and Mystic Sense is found, Muse, that presides o’er all the Powers of Sound.
ABRAHAM COLESBe every bar, and every star, Displayed in full and glorious manner! Blow, zephyrs, blow, keep the dear ensign flying! Blow, zephyrs, sweetly mournful, sighing, sighing, sighing!
More Abraham Coles Quotes
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True love is humble, thereby is it known; Girded for service, seeking not its own; Vaunts not itself, but speaks in self-dispraise.
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When hands clasped hands, and lips to lips were pressed, And the heart’s secret was at once confessed?
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Let us not doubt that God has a father’s pity towards us, and that in the removal of that which is dearest to us He is still loving and kind.
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With dazzling pomp descending angels sung Good will and peace to men, to God due praise, Who on the errand of salvation sent
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Much of our ignorance is of ourselves. Our eyes are full of dust. Prejudice blinds us.
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Who has not seen that feeling born of flame Crimson the cheek at mention of a name?
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Eternity! How know we but we stand On the precipitous and crumbling verge Of Time e’en now, Eternity below?
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No counter proof can equal the force of that drawn from His attributes. It is an indecency and a calumny to impute to Christ conduct which requires apology.
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Taking our stand on the immovable rock of Christ’s character we risk nothing in saying that the wine of miracle answered to the wine of nature, and was not intoxicating.
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The grave, where sets the orb of being, sets To rise, ascend, and culminate above Eternity’s horizon evermore.
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O most illustrious of the days of time! Day full of joy and benison to earth When Thou wast born, sweet Babe of Bethlehem!
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Be every bar, and every star, Displayed in full and glorious manner! Blow, zephyrs, blow, keep the dear ensign flying! Blow, zephyrs, sweetly mournful, sighing, sighing, sighing!
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Thee, Son Beloved! of plural Unity Essential part, made flesh that mad’st all worlds.
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Death separates, but it also unites. It reunites whom it separates.
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The weary Body, longing for repose, On the gained level of the day’s ascent, Halts for the night and pitches there its tent.
ABRAHAM COLES