Jottings from my sabretasch, by a Chelsea pensioner

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Page 316 - Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.
Page 200 - And kissed the Saviour's feet. Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye Their faltering tale disdain, As on their lowly couch they lie, Prisoners of want and pain. O guide us, when our faithless hearts From Thee would start aloof, Where Patience her sweet skill imparts Beneath some cottage roof: Revive our dying fires, to burn High as her anthems soar, And of our scholars let us learn Our own forgotten lore.
Page 104 - Angler t' a Fool is next neighbour!' Let him prate! What care we! We're as honest as he! And so, let him take that for his labour!
Page 46 - Miss Weston had been much interested by what she heard respecting Mrs. Eden, and gladly discovered that she was just the person who could assist in some needlework which was required at Broom Hill. She asked Lilias to tell her where to find her cottage, and Lily replied by an offer to show her the way...
Page 3 - When as no more I find. Henceforth I banish thee my court, Thou art no child of mine ; Nor any part of this my realm By favour shall be thine. Thy elder sisters...
Page 225 - I have a plan for her. A little change will set her to rights, and we will take her to London when we go next week to meet Eleanor. She deserves a little extra pleasure; you must take her under your protection, and lionise her well.' Trust me for that,' said Claude. 'It is the best news I have heard for a long time.
Page 211 - ... prithee, Van den Bosch, cut not that throat ; ' Roast not this man alive, or for my sake, ' If roast he must, not at so slow a fire ; ' Nor yet so hastily impale this other, ' But give him time to ruminate and foretaste ' So terrible an end.' Mild Philip thus Shall read his lecture of humanity. CHAPLAIN. Truly the tender mercies of the weak, As of the wicked, are but cruel.
Page 155 - I sing of a journey to Clifton, We would have performed if we could, Without cart or barrow to lift on Poor Mary and me through the mud. Slee sla slud, Stuck in the mud, O, it is pretty to wade through a flood ! 2.

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