The token and Atlantic souvenir,: an offering for Christmas and the New Year (Google eBook)

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David H. Williams, 1842 - Non-Classifiable - 320 pages
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Page 104 - Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
Page 102 - The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Page 103 - The silver key of the fountain of tears, Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild ; Softest grave of a thousand fears, Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child, Is laid asleep in flowers.
Page 93 - ... much in this point from one another. Now opium, by greatly increasing the activity of the mind, generally increases, of necessity, that particular mode of its activity by which we are able to construct out of the raw material of organic sound an elaborate intellectual pleasure.
Page 278 - ... in their attempts to foment disaffection. The English regarded colonies, even when settled by men from their own land, only as sources of emolument to the mother country ; colonists as an inferior caste. The Acadians were despised because they were helpless. Ignorant of the laws of their conquerors, they were not educated to the knowledge, the defence, and the love of English liberties ; they knew not the way to the throne, and, given up to military masters, had no redress in civil tribunals....
Page 296 - Alas! for them their day is o'er, Their fires are out from hill and shore, No more for them the wild deer bounds. The plough is on their hunting grounds; The pale man's axe rings in their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods, Their pleasant springs are dry " ' I turn gladly to the progress of our civil history.
Page 104 - More, more, I prithee, more. Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. Jaq. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs.
Page 104 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 228 - Lord for protection, they betook themselves to rest: the pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising: the name of the chamber was Peace, where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang, Where am I now?
Page 285 - A beautiful and fertile tract of country was reduced to a solitude. There was none left round the ashes of the cottages of the Acadians but the faithful watch-dog, vainly seeking the hands that fed him. Thickets of forest-trees choked their orchards; the ocean broke over their neglected dikes, and desolated their meadows.

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