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Page 85 - But alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.
Page 85 - How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
Page 84 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Page 268 - A stranger animal," cries one, " Sure never lived beneath the sun; A lizard's body, lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue; Its foot with triple claw disjoined; And what a length of tail behind ! How slow its pace, and then its hue; — Who ever saw so fine a blue !"
Page 286 - Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold, Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand? Is it there, sweet mother! that better land? Not there, not there, my child ! Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Page 195 - What is that, Mother? The dove, my son ! And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out, from her gentle breast, Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return : Ever, my son, be thou, like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother ? The eagle, boy!
Page 195 - Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward, and upward, and true to the line. What is that, Mother?
Page 164 - The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale; But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den.
Page 261 - The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavored to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation — "Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart.