Ptocowa: A Strange Sad Story of Fifteen Years in Dixie as Told in a Single Night

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John P. Smith, 1885 - Reconstruction - 267 pages
 

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Page 233 - This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well...
Page 195 - NEVER stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry in the desert, On the sick or wounded bison, But another vulture, watching From his high aerial look-out, Sees the downward plunge, and follows ; And a third pursues the second, Coming from the invisible ether, First a speck, and then a vulture, Till the air is dark with pinions.
Page 71 - The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.
Page 22 - Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen ; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
Page 32 - The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers...
Page 199 - Honor and shame from no condition rise ; Act well your part, there all the honor lies.
Page 145 - The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him.
Page 217 - Oh Death ! where is thy sting ? Oh Grave ! where is thy victory ? The sting of Death is sin, and the strength of sin is the Law.
Page 233 - BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead. Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand...
Page 200 - There are ninety and nine that work and die In want and hunger and cold, That one may revel in luxury And be lapped in the silken fold ! The ninety and nine in their hovels bare, And one in a palace of riches rare.

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