The historical, biographical and poetical reader; or, Scholar's companion

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Page 49 - They sin who tell us love can die. With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth ; But love is indestructible, Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth...
Page 106 - Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.
Page 84 - The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Page 107 - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.
Page 36 - Happy the man*, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire.
Page 69 - What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet, From birds among the bowers.
Page 61 - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such ! Who centred in our make such strange extremes...
Page 30 - Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice ; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
Page 101 - Death ! Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth...
Page 99 - LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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