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Annis answered appeared arms asked Aunt beautiful believe better brought called captain carried cause Charles coming course Courtenay Dalrymple dear death desire dress effect England eyes face father fear feeling France girl give gone hand happy head heard heart Helen hope hour idea interest Italy knew Lady leave less live look Lord Madame marry matter mean mind Miss Monsieur morning mother nature never night once Paris party passed perhaps Perrotin person political poor present question Rachel replied returned round seemed seen servants side smile soon speak Stamford suppose sure tell things thought told took town turned voice Walter whole wife wish woman write young
Page 610 - A rest for weary pilgrims found, " They softly lie, and sweetly sleep
Page 523 - WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours.
Page 524 - For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose Who giveth His beloved sleep. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one most loving of you all, Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ! He giveth His beloved sleep.
Page 295 - The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave ; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, T 3 The terrors of the living, not the dead.
Page 402 - Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.
Page 521 - Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st, yet grossly fear'st Thy death — which is no more. Thou art not thyself; For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not ; For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get, And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain ; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, After the moon.
Page 294 - There is no terror, brother Toby, in its looks, but what it borrows from groans and convulsions — and the blowing of noses and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains, in a dying man's room.
Page 225 - He was not a man of many words, and rarely begun the discourse, or made the first entrance upon any business that was assumed; but a very weighty speaker, and after he had heard a full debate, and observed how the house was like to be inclined, took up the argument, and shortly, and clearly, and craftily, so stated it, that he commonly conducted it to the conclusion he desired...