The Port Folio (Google eBook)

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Editor and Asbury Dickens, 1817 - Philadelphia (Pa.)
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Page 123 - Abba, Father, all things are possible unto thee ; take away this cup from me: nevertheless, not what I will, but what thou wilt.
Page 122 - Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.
Page 259 - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
Page 156 - The one was fire and fickleness, a child Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various, gay, grave, sage, or wild, Historian, bard, philosopher combined : He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents : But his own Breathed most in ridicule, which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.
Page 260 - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Page 511 - Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
Page 259 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame...
Page 119 - Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us ; and to the hills, Cover us.
Page 259 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Page 433 - I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.

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