This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1852 Excerpt: ...a deadly fear. Oh God! the prayer PRAYER. Ill That on the steps of the mad shriek that bore Woe, horror, and defiance up to Heaven, Followed with faint entreaty! That weak cry, That mute despairing thing that from her heart Scarce struggled to her lips, and there fell prone As one across a threshold! Staggering on With ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1852 Excerpt: ...a deadly fear. Oh God! the prayer PRAYER. Ill That on the steps of the mad shriek that bore Woe, horror, and defiance up to Heaven, Followed with faint entreaty! That weak cry, That mute despairing thing that from her heart Scarce struggled to her lips, and there fell prone As one across a threshold! Staggering on With its pale hands uplift, closer it drew; And, while she looked to see it thrust without Into surrounding darkness, rapt and calm Stood the ranked angels. Near, oh God, it came! Then with the mien of her who touched His robe When the crowd pressed Him, springing to the throne, With a low cry fell prostrate! In their sheaths Why slept the keen swords of the cherubim? Lo, every knee was bowed! round every brow There bloomed fresh amaranth, from every lip Burst such transcendent melody, the stars Grew musical with its echoes, and dull earth Dreamed of it in her slumber. Last of all Rose that pale Form, and cast the mantle back, And drank in the pure light with steadfast eyes, And showed God's seal, that, stamped upon its brow, Burned like a star. There was great joy in Heaven. THEODORA. Since we know her for an angel Bearing meek the common load, Let us call her, Theodora, Gift of God! Still so young that every summer Is a rose upon her brow, All her days are blooms detaching From a bough. She is very slight, and graceful As the bending of a fern, As the marble figure drooping O'er an urn. In her eyes are tranquil shadows Lofty thoughts alone can make, Like the darkness thrown by mountains O'er a lake. If you speak, the slow returning Of her spirit from afar To their depths, is like the advent Of a star. No one marvels at her beauty; Blended with a perfect whole, Beauty seems the just expression Of her soul. THEODORA. 115 For her lightest word or f...
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