The Collected Works of Theodore Parker: Critical writings

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Page 62 - I am in earnest. I will not equivocate — I will not excuse — I will not retreat a single inch. AND I WILL BE HEARD.
Page 222 - A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do.
Page 226 - Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, — The canticles of love and woe...
Page 214 - OUR age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?
Page 264 - that all men are created equal, and endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights — among which are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,' I shall strenuously contend for the immediate enfranchisement of our slave population.
Page 227 - These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Page 228 - Build, therefore, your own world. As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions. A correspondent revolution in things will attend the influx of the spirit.
Page 299 - Who is gone into Heaven, and is on the Right Hand of God ; Angels and authorities and powers being made subject unto Him.
Page 210 - In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life— no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair.
Page 34 - Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast ; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest : Ah ! wanton, will ye...