The Money-king and Other Poems

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Ticknor and Fields, 1860 - History - 180 pages
 

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Page 90 - AGAIN I hear that creaking step! — He's rapping at the door! — Too well I know the boding sound That ushers in a bore. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who comes — but never goes!
Page 87 - I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes! Early Rising "Goo bless the man who first invented sleep!
Page 89 - And tells me of the pains He suffers from a score of ills Of which he ne'er complains; And how he struggled once with death To keep the fiend at bay; On themes like those away he goes, But never goes away!
Page 53 - Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all!
Page 55 - Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — Awake to duty and awake to truth, — But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!
Page 35 - Ah me ! my very laurels breathe The tale in my reluctant ears, And every boon the Hours bequeath But makes me debtor to the Years! E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare The secret she would fain withhold, And tells me in
Page 88 - I've seen a word; He scans the lyric (that I wrote) And thinks it quite absurd; He calmly smokes my last cigar, And coolly asks for more; He opens everything he sees Except the entry door!
Page 70 - Dust to dust," the parson said, And all the people wept aloud. For he had shunned the deadly sin, And not a grain of over-toll Had ever dropped into his bin, To weigh upon his parting soul.
Page 71 - ... Tis all about the mighty cord They call the Atlantic Cable. Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he, " I have a pretty notion That I can run a telegraph Across the Atlantic Ocean.
Page 68 - BENEATH the hill you may see the mill Of wasting wood and crumbling stone; The wheel is dripping and clattering still, But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone. Year after year, early and late, Alike in summer and winter weather, He pecked the stones and calked the gate, And mill and miller grew old together. "Little Jerry!" — 'twas all the same, — They loved him well who called him so; And whether he'd ever another name, Nobody ever seemed to know. 'Twas, "Little Jerry, come grind my rye"; And...

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