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Page 32 - Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! ENDYMION.
Page 153 - My native country, thee, Land of the noble, free. Thy name I love ; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills: My heart with rapture thrills Like that above.
Page 146 - The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.
Page 62 - THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel ; And the former called the latter ' Little Prig '. Bun replied, ' You are doubtless very big ; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace 10 To occupy my place.
Page 121 - Our outward life requires them not ; Then wherefore had they birth ? — To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth. To comfort man, — to whisper hope Whene'er his faith is dim ; For who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him ! THE WOODLAND SANCTUARY.
Page 147 - Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame : Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear ; — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ! And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.
Page 31 - The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
Page 18 - True worth is in being, not seeming; In doing each day that goes by. Some little good — not in dreaming Of great things to do by and by. For whatever men say in their blindness. And spite of the fancies of youth. There's nothing so kingly as kindness. And nothing so royal as truth.
Page 75 - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.