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Seite 339 - Who misses or who wins the prize. Go, lose or conquer as you can ; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young ! (Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days : The shepherds heard it overhead — The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men.
Seite 339 - Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart, Who misses or who wins the prize. — Go, lose or conquer as you can ; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
Seite 85 - I'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down.
Seite 84 - THE play is done ; the curtain drops, Slow falling, to the prompter's bell : A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.
Seite 261 - And when, its force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea — I thought, as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling, and making A prayer at home for me.
Seite 266 - Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me — There's no one now to share my cup.
Seite 281 - THERE lived a sage in days of yore And he a handsome pigtail wore ; But wondered much and sorrowed more Because it hung behind him. He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him. Says he, " The mystery I've found, — I'll turn me round," — he turned him round; But still it hung behind him.
Seite 256 - He captured many thousand guns ; He wrote "The Great" before his name ; And dying, only left his sons The recollection of his shame. Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own ; And borrowed from his enemies Six foot of ground to lie upon. He fought a thousand glorious wars, And more than half the world was his, And somewhere now, in yonder stars, Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.
Seite 84 - I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Yonr hopes more vain, than those of men ; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen, At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys ; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve, in corduroys.
Seite 265 - Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might, gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door.