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A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations: Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

Religion

A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations: Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

Quotations; Religious poetry

Lord, be it mine, like Thine elect, to choose
    The better part; like them to use
        The means Thy love hath given;
    Be _holiness_ my aim on earth;
    That death be welcom’d as a birth
        To life and bliss in heaven.
                                    _Bishop Mant._


    Not all the pomp and pageantry of worlds
    Reflect such glory on the eye supreme,
    As the meek virtues of one _holy_ man;
    For ever doth his angel, from the face
    Divine, beatitude and wisdom draw;
    And in his prayer, what privilege adored!
    Mounting the heavens, and claiming audience there;
    Yes! there, amid a high, immortal host
    Of seraphs, hymning in eternal choir,
    A lip of clay its orisons can send,
    In temple, or in solitude outbreathed.
                                       _R. Montgomery._


    Ascribe ye _holiness_ unto the Lord;
    Not unto man, for he is never _holy_:
    The best of men, who walketh in the light
    Of a clear conscience, may not claim that title--
    That high distinction, only fit for those
    Who dwell with Him--the fount of _holiness_!
                                              _Egone._




                                 HOME.


Man goeth to his long _home_, and the mourners go about the
streets.--Ecclesiastes, xii. 5.

And another also said, Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go
bid them farewell, which are at _home_ at my house.--Luke, ix. 61.

Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at
_home_ in the body, we are absent from the Lord.--II. Corinthians, v. 6.


    Death is, no doubt, in every place the same;
    Yet nature casts a look towards _home_, and most,
    Who have it in their power, choose to expire
    Where first they drew their breath.
                                              _Lillo._


    ’Twas early day, and sunlight streamed
      Soft through a quiet room,
    That hushed, but not forsaken seemed,
      Still, but with nought of gloom.

    For there, secure in happy age,
      Whose hope is from above,
    A father communed with the page
      Of heaven-recorded love.

    Pure fell the beam and meekly bright
      On his gray holy hair,
    And touched the book with tenderest light,
      As if its shrine were there.

    But, oh, that patriarch’s aspect shone
      With something lovelier far;
    A radiance all the spirit’s own,
      Caught not from sun or star.

    Some word of life e’en then had met
      His calm benignant eye,
    Some ancient promise breathing yet
      Of immortality.

    Some heart’s deep language, where the glow
      Of quenchless faith survives;
    For every feature said, “I know
      That my Redeemer lives.”

    And silent stood his children by,
      Hushing their very breath,
    Before the solemn sanctity
      Of thoughts o’ersweeping death.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

Religion

A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations: Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

Quotations; Religious poetry

Lord, be it mine, like Thine elect, to choose
    The better part; like them to use
        The means Thy love hath given;
    Be _holiness_ my aim on earth;
    That death be welcom’d as a birth
        To life and bliss in heaven.
                                    _Bishop Mant._


    Not all the pomp and pageantry of worlds
    Reflect such glory on the eye supreme,
    As the meek virtues of one _holy_ man;
    For ever doth his angel, from the face
    Divine, beatitude and wisdom draw;
    And in his prayer, what privilege adored!
    Mounting the heavens, and claiming audience there;
    Yes! there, amid a high, immortal host
    Of seraphs, hymning in eternal choir,
    A lip of clay its orisons can send,
    In temple, or in solitude outbreathed.
                                       _R. Montgomery._


    Ascribe ye _holiness_ unto the Lord;
    Not unto man, for he is never _holy_:
    The best of men, who walketh in the light
    Of a clear conscience, may not claim that title--
    That high distinction, only fit for those
    Who dwell with Him--the fount of _holiness_!
                                              _Egone._




                                 HOME.


Man goeth to his long _home_, and the mourners go about the
streets.--Ecclesiastes, xii. 5.

And another also said, Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go
bid them farewell, which are at _home_ at my house.--Luke, ix. 61.

Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at
_home_ in the body, we are absent from the Lord.--II. Corinthians, v. 6.


    Death is, no doubt, in every place the same;
    Yet nature casts a look towards _home_, and most,
    Who have it in their power, choose to expire
    Where first they drew their breath.
                                              _Lillo._


    ’Twas early day, and sunlight streamed
      Soft through a quiet room,
    That hushed, but not forsaken seemed,
      Still, but with nought of gloom.

    For there, secure in happy age,
      Whose hope is from above,
    A father communed with the page
      Of heaven-recorded love.

    Pure fell the beam and meekly bright
      On his gray holy hair,
    And touched the book with tenderest light,
      As if its shrine were there.

    But, oh, that patriarch’s aspect shone
      With something lovelier far;
    A radiance all the spirit’s own,
      Caught not from sun or star.

    Some word of life e’en then had met
      His calm benignant eye,
    Some ancient promise breathing yet
      Of immortality.

    Some heart’s deep language, where the glow
      Of quenchless faith survives;
    For every feature said, “I know
      That my Redeemer lives.”

    And silent stood his children by,
      Hushing their very breath,
    Before the solemn sanctity
      Of thoughts o’ersweeping death.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

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