A Practical and Critical Grammar of the English Language

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John P. Morton, 1874 - English language - 312 pages
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Page 116 - Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low : and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain. And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together ; for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.
Page 291 - Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
Page 141 - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Page 215 - Adam the goodliest man of men since born His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
Page 294 - The sound must seem an echo to the sense : Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow ; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Page 295 - THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed. Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. — So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
Page 292 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
Page 287 - His spear, — to equal which, the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand...
Page 284 - THE CURFEW tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Page 249 - The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. But now secure the painted vessel glides, The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides : While melting music steals upon the sky, And softened sounds along the waters die ; Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay.

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