The Pioneer: Or, Leaves from an Editor's Portfolio (Google eBook)

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J. B. Tolman, 1846 - 208 pages
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Page 165 - The eye — it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. 'Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
Page 80 - Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by: And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.
Page 135 - For us, the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow; Nothing we see, but means our good. As our delight, or as our treasure; The whole is either our cupboard of food, Or cabinet of pleasure.
Page 43 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Page 75 - I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.
Page 14 - How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view...
Page 75 - The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky. Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
Page 166 - tis a dull and endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music ! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
Page 158 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch — stitch — stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! She sang this " Song of the Shirt !
Page 80 - twas all about,' Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; 'Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.

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