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The sceptic sees Their operation, but beholds not Him, “Wherefore a God!” he cries, “the world itself Suffices for itself!” and Christian prayer Ne’er praised him more, than does this blasphemy. God’s world could not possibly be a conglomeration of chances; it must be orderly, and the fact that it is so proves its dependence.
And with regard to the English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude properties; and, though there is ne’er a haggis in a’ the land, there’s an unco deal o’ gowd and siller. I respect England, for I have an auntie married there.’ The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their whole history proves it.
Am I not come to rescue thee from a place where thou never shouldst have been?—where thou ne’er shalt be again? Callista, what is this mystery?—speak!
The assistance asked in simple prayers is often nothing more than the neutrality of the gods, their non-interference; “no preventing Providence,” as the expression is in our popular religion. Prayers of fear are of this kind: “And they say, God be merciful, Who ne’er said, God be praised.”
Time stops for no one, but I did my best; I don’t reproach myself.’ There’s the true philosopher, though a slave; more outspoken than Æsop, more practical than Epictetus.” Callista began singing to herself:— “I wander by that river’s brink Which circles Pluto’s drear domain; I feel the chill night breeze, and think Of joys which ne’er shall be again.
"Lucia has given herself to you; and you have sold yourself to Catiline! By all the fiends of Hades, better it were for you, rash boy, that you had ne’er been born, than now to fail me!" Arvina, trembling with the deep consciousness of hospitality betrayed, and feeling the first stings of remorse already, stood thunderstricken, and unable to articulate.
I gained on him at every step; heard the quick panting of his breath; stretched out my left to grasp him, while my right held unsheathed and ready the good stiletto that ne’er failed me.
If I may ne’er behold again That form and face so dear to me, Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain Preserve, for aye, their memory. That voice, the magic of whose tone Can wake an echo in my breast, Creating feelings that, alone, Can make my tranced spirit blest. That laughing eye, whose sunny beam My memory would not cherish less;— And oh, that smile!
Which makes a hell of hell, a heaven of heaven! The goddess, with determin’d aspect turns Her adamantine key’s enormous size Through Destiny’s inextricable wards, Deep driving every bolt on both their fates. Then, from the crystal battlements of heaven, Down, down she hurls it through the dark profound, Ten thousand, thousand fathom; there to rust And ne’er unlock her resolution more.
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