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Page 163 - are beating Funeral marches to the grave. ***** " Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time! " Footprints! that perhaps another, Sailing o'er Life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing shall take heart again!
Page 128 - Once upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious Volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, Rapping at my chamber door. ' 'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, ' Tapping at my chamber dooró Only this, and nothing more.
Page 197 - visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Page 357 - His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart! He had a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; So did he travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness, and yet his heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay
Page 220 - eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command: And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
Page 230 - His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Bozzaris! with the storied brave, Greece mustered in her glory's time, Rest thee; there is no prouder grave,
Page 164 - There is a reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded gram at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. * * * * " He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves, It was for the Lord of Paradise' He bound them in his sheaves.
Page 156 - Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not, in enjoyment it expired; No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request. Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made himóit was blessedness and love.
Page 130 - Not the least obeisance made he; Not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, Perched above my chamber dooró Perched upon a bust of Pallas Just above my chamber dooró Perched, and sat, and nothing more.