The Progressive Music Series ...

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Silver, Burdett and Company, 1914
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Page 169 - Thy bountiful care what tongue can recite ? It breathes in the air, it shines in the light, It streams from the hills...
Page 168 - Let my sins be all forgiven ! Bless the friends I love so well ! Take me, when I die, to heaven, Happy there with thee to dwell ! VI.
Page 173 - Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave: And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Page 4 - Bjornson are used by permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of the works of these authors.
Page 52 - Nineteen times as high as the moon; Where she was going I couldn't but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom. "Old woman, old woman, old woman," quoth I, "O whither, O whither, O whither, so high?
Page 168 - JESUS, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night ; Through the darkness be Thou near me, Keep me safe till morning light.
Page 171 - God's own field, Fruit unto His praise to yield; Wheat and tares together sown, Unto joy or sorrow grown; First the blade and then the ear, Then the full corn shall appear.
Page 71 - Within the silent shade. Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.
Page 169 - O, WORSHIP the King, all glorious above, And gratefully sing his wonderful love, Our Shield and Defender, the Ancient of Days, Pavilioned in splendor, and girded with praise. 2 O, tell of his might, and sing of his grace, Whose robe is the light, whose canopy, space ; His chariots of wrath the deep thunder-clouds form, And dark is his path on the wings of the storm.
Page 37 - Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear harp of my country, farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ; Go — sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine.

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