Clergy From England

"The Lord is a shoving leopard."

"Kinquering Congs their titles take."

"A blushing crow."

"O come, O come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel."

"Brief life is here our portion, Brief sorrow, short-lived care: The Life that knows no ending, The tearless Life, is there."

"You will find as you grow older that the weight of rages will press harder and harder upon the employer."

"All glory, laud, and honour To Thee, Redeemer, King! To Whom the lips of children Made sweet Hosannas ring."

"Good King Wenceslas look'd out On the Feast of Stephen, When the snow lay round about, Deep, and crisp, and even."

"That learning belongs not to the female character, and that the female mind is not capable of a degree of improvement equal to that of the other sex, are narrow and unphilosophical prejudices."

"Her late husband, you know, a very sad death—eaten by missionaries—poor soul!"

"A well-boiled icicle."

"It is a perfect little landscape, like a Constable, and that is the kind of thing that Kilvert can do on every page. More often, he is rendering life, from close-up observation and with the tenderest, most exquisite sympathy for every sort of human being... It is a world of rural deans, and tea on rectory lawns under the trees, and, after tea, archery or croquet, or picking flowers in the flowery meads of Wiltshire for decorating the church, of pretty Victorian girls looking over the parapet of the bridge while the river flows by. And all the while there is one, a little apart, watching life itself flowing by, trying to catch it on the wing, to ensnare a momentary aspect of its beauty, with what quivering sensibility, with what nostalgia for what is passing, even as it passes, in a paragraph, a sentence, a phrase."

"He was a man—however obscure until now—of remarkable personality: a man with a natural feeling for the best things, for religion, for literature, for the countryside, for birds and flowers, above all for wayfaring men and women and specially children. Moreover he had a sense of humour."

"But hark! My pulse, like a soft drum Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And, slow howe’er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear! (forgive The crime) I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part."

"The best picture of quiet vicarage life in Victorian England that has yet been given us."

"He's so bright-eyed it makes one unconscionably glad to be alive."

"The discovery of the extensive diary of the Reverend Francis Kilvert some years ago added a new classic to English diary literature."

"We that did nothing study but the way To love each other, with which thoughts the day Rose with delight to us, and with them set, Must learn the hateful art, how to forget."

"Weary of earth and laden with my sin, I look at heaven, and long to enter in."

"Palmam qui meruit, ferat."

"Sleep on (my Love!) in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted. My last Good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed."

"All hail the power of Jesu's name! Let Angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, To crown Him Lord of All."

"O passing beautiful—in this wild spot Temples, and tombs, and dwellings,—all forgot! One sea of sunlight far around them spread, And skies of sapphire mantling overhead. They seem no work of man’s creative hand, Where Labour wrought as wayward Fancy plann’d; But from the rock as if by magic grown, Eternal—silent—beautiful—alone! Not virgin white—like that old Doric shrine Where once Athena held her rites divine: Not saintly grey—like many a minster fane That crowns the hill, or sanctifies the plain: But rosy-red,—as if the blush of dawn Which first beheld them were not yet withdrawn: The hues of youth upon a brow of woe, Which men call’d old two thousand years ago! Match me such marvel, save in Eastern clime,— A rose-red city—‘half as old as Time!’"

"Of all noxious animals, too, the most noxious is a tourist. And of all tourists the most vulgar, ill-bred, offensive and loathsome is the British tourist."

"An angel satyr walks these hills."

"Prodigious might that union prove, Where Night and Day together move, And the conjunction of our lips Not kisses make but an eclipse; In which the mixed black and white Portends more terrour than delight."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, Bring me pine-logs hither."

"It is a fine thing to be out on the hills alone. A man can hardly be a beast or a fool alone on a great mountain."

"’Mid toil and tribulation, And tumult of her war, She waits the consummation Of peace for evermore; Till with the vision glorious Her longing eyes are blest, And the great Church victorious Shall be the Church at rest."

"The Hadd, a punishment based on a Zahir, or obvious sentence of the Quran requires that a Muslim who apostatizes shall be put to death. In the case of an apostate woman Imam Abu Hanifa ruled that she should be imprisoned and beaten every day. The other three Imams, Malik, Shafai and Hanbal said that she should be put to death in accordance with the Tradition which says: He who changes his religion, kill.""

"The other great advantage of the seasons, both earthly and liturgical, is that they circle slowly round quite independently of one’s own moods and thus become a corrective and offer perspective. I may be feeling glum, but Easter reminds me of resurrection anyway, I may be swayed by some splurge of Christmas consumerism but Advent reminds me that all I really need is the savior who is coming and for whose advent I should prepare. So the seasons, like all the old liturgical patterns, like the practice of reading scripture, can set us free from the tyranny of our own mood swings. In that sense they are always a blessing."

"The concupiscence of the eyes touches the soul at a higher level than that of the flesh, and is consequently even more subtle and dangerous. Everyone can distinguish sins of the flesh, and most people endeavor to keep themselves from any serious entanglement with them, but it is quite possible to become considerably involved in the concupiscence of the eyes without being in the least aware of the fact."

"I could never myself believe in God, if it were not for the cross. The only God I believe in is the One Nietzsche ridiculed as 'God on the cross'. In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it? I have entered many Buddhist temples in different Asian countries and stood respectfully before the statue of the Buddha, his legs crossed, arms folded, eyes closed, the ghost of a smile playing round his mouth, a remote look on his face, detached from the agonies of the world. But each time after a while I have had to turn away. And in imagination I have turned instead to that lonely, twisted, tortured figure on the cross, nails through hands and feet, back lacerated, limbs wrenched, brow bleeding from thorn-pricks, mouth dry and intolerably thirsty, plunged in God-forsaken darkness. That is the God for me! He laid aside his immunity to pain. He entered our world of flesh and blood, tears and death. He suffered for us. Our sufferings become more manageable in the light of his. There is still a question mark against human suffering, but over it we boldly stamp another mark, the cross which symbolizes divine suffering."

"We must allow the Word of God to confront us, to disturb our security, to undermine our complacency and to overthrow our patterns of thought and behavior."

"Our love grows soft if it is not strengthened by truth, and our truth grows hard if it is not softened by love."

"So from a brazen vase the trembling stream Reflects the lunar or the solar beam: Swift and elusive of the dazzled eyes, From wall to wall the dancing glory flies: Thence to the ceiling shoot the glancing rays, And o'er the roof the quivering splendor plays."

"But hear, ye gods! and Heaven's great ruler, hear, With due regard, a king's and father's prayer! My dear, dear Pallas, if the fates ordain Safe to return, and bless these eyes again: With age, pain, sickness, this one blessing give; On this condition I'll endure to live. But oh! if fortune has decreed his doom, Now, now, by death, prevent my woes to come; Now, while my hopes and fears uncertain flow, Now, ere she lifts her hand to strike the blow; While in these feeble arms I strain the boy, My sole delight, my last surviving joy. Ere the sad news of his untimely doom Shall bow this head with sorrow to the tomb!"

"Infernal gods, who rule the shades below, Chaos and Phlegethon, the realms of woe; Grant what I've heard I may to light expose, Secrets which earth, and night, and hell inclose!"

"The shrill echoes ring amidst the skies."

"Smooth lies the road to Pluto's gloomy shade, And hell's black gates for ever stand displayed, But 'tis a long unconquerable pain, To climb to these ethereal realms again."

"Be this your nobler praise in times to come, These your imperial arts, ye sons of Rome! O'er distant realms to stretch your awful sway, To bid those nations tremble and obey; To crush the proud, the suppliant foe to rear, To give mankind a peace, or shake the world with war."

"A mighty tree, that bears a golden bough."

"Poor pitied youth! ... Bring fragrant flowers, the whitest lilies bring, With all the purple beauties of the spring; These gifts at least, these honours I'll bestow On the dear youth, to please his shade below."

"Ye subterranean gods! whose awful sway The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey: O Chaos, hear! and Phlegethon profound! Whose solemn empire stretches wide around! Give me, ye great tremendous powers! to tell Of scenes and wonders in the depths of Hell; Give me your mighty secrets to display From those black realms of darkness to the day."

"Mr. Pitt, no doubt, had many advantages above Dryden in this arduous province; as he was later in the attempt, he had consequently the version of Dryden to improve upon. He saw the errors of that great poet, and avoided them; he discovered his beauties, and improved upon them; and as he was not impelled by necessity, he had leisure to revise, correct, and finish his excellent work."

"The success of his Vida animated him to a higher undertaking; ...he gave us a complete English Eneid. Pitt, engaging as a rival with Dryden, naturally observed his failures, and avoided them; and, as he wrote after Pope's Iliad, he had an example of an exact, equable, and splendid versification. With these advantages, seconded by great diligence, he might successfully labour particular passages, and escape many errors. If the two versions are compared, perhaps the result would be, that Dryden leads the reader forward by his general vigour and sprightliness, and Pitt often stops him to contemplate the excellence of a single couplet; that Dryden's faults are forgotten in the hurry of delight, and that Pitt's beauties are neglected in the languor of a cold and listless perusal; that Pitt pleases the criticks, and Dryden the people; that Pitt is quoted, and Dryden read."

"Arms! arms! my friends, with speed my arms supply, 'Tis our last hour, and summons us to die; My arms!—in vain you hold me,—let me go— Give, give me back this moment to the foe. 'Tis well—we will not tamely perish all, But die revenged, and triumph in our fall."

"Now on a towering arch of waves we rise, Heaved on the bounding billows, to the skies. Then, as the roaring surge retreating fell, We shoot down headlong to the depths of hell."

"Thrice round her neck my eager arms I threw; Thrice from my empty arms the phantom flew, Swift as the wind, with momentary flight, Swift as a fleeting vision of the night."

"Be sure from nature never to depart; To copy nature is the task of art. The noblest poets own her sovereign sway, And ever follow where she leads the way."