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E. C. & J. Biddle, 1845 - 338 páginas

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Página 259 - Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o'er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale ; But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.
Página vii - I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings; and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own " exceeding great reward ; " it has soothed my afflictions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude ; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me...
Página 282 - And Methuselah lived after he begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat sons and daughters: 27 And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.
Página 309 - And, as the transient flower of grass, Just blossom — droop, and die; But for a being without end, This vow of love we take; Grant us, O God! one home at last, For our Redeemer's sake.
Página 70 - DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount, For which it long had thirsted 'mid the strife And fever of the world.
Página 243 - With blessings on thy head; Fresh roses in thy hand, Buds on thy pillow laid, Haste from this fearful land, Where flowers so quickly fade.
Página 65 - Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, Befit thee better than these rugged walls Of shapeless logs, and this lone hermit home.
Página 265 - Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in, Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin : From the land of promise ye fade and die, Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid, Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, While the wonder and pride of your works remain.
Página 265 - neath the billows dark, The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? There are snares enough on the tented field, Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ;. There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up, There's a...
Página 292 - Virginia's godlike chief — Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, — What though no high ambition prompts to...

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