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Página 276 - FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.2 Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Página 13 - How like thy wing's impatient zeal Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest Upon the world's ignoble breast, But takes the plume that God has given, And rises into light and heaven ! But, when I see that wing, so bright, Grow languid with a moment's flight.
Página 257 - I KNEW, by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here...
Página 191 - How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage? All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!
Página 277 - There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Página 159 - Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear...
Página 290 - Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck, And the dim blue fire that lights her deck Doth play on as pale and livid a crew, As ever yet drank the church-yard dew ! To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, To Deadman's Isle she speeds her fast ; By skeleton shapes her...
Página 188 - Excepting the streets and avenues and a small part of the ground adjoining the public buildings, the whole place is covered with trees. To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and, I believe, a novel circumstance.
Página 160 - Oh ! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant ! Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they number'd all From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Form'd to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts.