Felicia Hemans Quotes

There is in all this cold and hollow world, No fount of deep, strong,deathless love ;save that within a mother's heart

Though the past haunt me as a spirit, I do not ask to forget.

Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things.

Oh, call my brother back to me!I cannot play alone:The summer comes with flower and bee,-Where is my brother gone?

There’s beauty all around our paths, If but our watchful eyes Can trace it ’midst familiar things, And through their lowly guise.

We pine for kindred natures To mingle with our own.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine, The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Passing away" is written on the world and all the world contains.

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

Come, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountain with light and song: Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

Oh! lovely voices of the sky Which hymned the Saviour's birth, Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"?

There is strength deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck but little till the shafts of heaven have pierced its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent before her gems are found?

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod, They have left unstained, what there they found,- Freedom to worship God.

The stately Homes of England,How beautiful they stand!Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land.

I had a hat. It was not all a hat,-Part of the brim was gone:Yet still I wore it on.

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

The opening and the folding flowers, that laugh to the summer's day.

life's best balm - Forgetfulness!

Christ hath arisen! O mountain peaks, attest- Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave! The immortal courage in the human breast Sprung from that victory-tell how oft the brave To camp midst rock and cave, Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!

A passion for flowers, is, I think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence.

Alas! for love, if thou art all, And nought beyond, O earth.