Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes 15-16 (Google eBook)

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G.W. & S.O. Post, 1851
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Page 184 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress...
Page 144 - That the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment? Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and his head reach unto the clouds; Yet he shall perish for ever like his own dung: they which have seen him shall say, Where is he?
Page 137 - JENNY kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me.
Page 184 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed...
Page 84 - We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault.
Page 121 - But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind, A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind : It drew me nearer nearer, We did not speak one word, For...
Page 147 - I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins : return unto me ; for I have redeemed thee.
Page 90 - Why is it that the stars, which " hold their festival around the midnight throne," are set above the grasp of our limited faculties forever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And finally, why is it, that bright forms of human beauty are presented to our view, and then taken...
Page 153 - ON thy fair bosom, silver lake ! The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream ! The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star.
Page 106 - Catiline, to remark that his walk was now quick, and again slow, as an indication of a mind revolving something with violent commotion. Thus the story of Melancthon affords a striking lecture on the value of time, by informing us, that when he made an appointment, he expected not only the hour, but the minute to be fixed, that the day might not run out in the idleness of suspense : and...

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