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Page 276 - Amen ! whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart, Who misses or who wins the prize. Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
Page 250 - It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of world-stirring actions.
Page 275 - I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men ; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen, At forty-five played o'er again. I 'd say, we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys ; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve, in corduroys.
Page 251 - Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of commonplace things - men who see beauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them.
Page 259 - Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again.
Page 251 - In this world there are so many of these common coarse people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness ! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes.
Page 251 - ... do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pothouse, those rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world — those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions.
Page 250 - I turn without shrinking from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her flowerpot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened, perhaps, by a screen of leaves, falls on her mobcap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap, common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her...
Page 250 - Of our brief span, that we must yield our breath, And wrap us in the unfeeling coil of death, So much remaining of unproved delight. But hush, my soul, and vain regrets, be stilled ; Find rest in Him who is the complement Of whatsoe'er...
Page 276 - Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give, or to recall.