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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. — John Shaqi

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

Born on the swelling notes, our soul aspire,
    While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
    And angels lean from Heaven to hear.
                                          _Pope._


    Should the well-meant songs I leave behind,
    With Jesus’ lovers an acceptance find,
    ’Twill heighten even the joys of Heaven, to know
    That in my verse the saints hymn God below.
                                        _Bishop Ken._


    The song of Zion is a tasteless thing,
    Unless when rising on a joyful wing,
    The soul can mix with the celestial bands,
    And give the strain the compass it demands.
                                       _Cowper._


    How shall the harp of poesy regain
      That old victorious tone of prophet-years--
      A spell divine o’er guilt’s perturbing fears,
    And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
    Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain,
      And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
      Sank on the soul:--O, who may now recall
    The mighty _music’s_ consecrated reign?--
    Spirit of God! whose glory once o’erhung
      A throne, the Ark’s dread cherubim between,
      So let Thy presence brood, though now unseen,
    O’er those two powers by whom the harp is strung--
    Feeling and thought!--till the rekindled chords
    Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.
                                         _Mrs. Hemans._


    O, surely melody from Heaven was sent
    To cheer the soul, when tired with human strife,
    To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
    And soften down the rugged road of life.
                                       _Kirke White._


    O, what a gentle ministrant is _music_
    To piety--to mild, to penitent piety!
    O, it gives plumage to the tardy prayer
    That lingers in our lazy, earthly air,
    And melts with it to Heaven.
                             _H. H. Milman._


    _Music_, the tender child of rudest times,
    The gentle native of all lands and climes;
    Who hymns alike man’s cradle and his grave,
    Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave.
                                  _Mrs. Norton._


    ’Tis He that taught the lark, from earth upspringing,
      To warble forth his matin strain;
    And the pure stream, in liquid gushes singing,
      Gladly to bless the thirsty plain;
    And from the laden bee, when homeward winging
      Its tuneful flight doth not disdain,
        To hear the song of praise.
    There’s not a voice in Nature, but is telling
      (If we will hear that voice aright,)
    How much, when human hearts with love are swelling,
      His blessed bosom hath delight
        In our rejoicing lays.
        His love, that never slumbers,
        Taught thee those tuneful numbers.
                                                _Bethune._

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