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Page 23 - By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
Page 257 - tis, and scrupulous care. To place my gains beyond the reach of tides. Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare. Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. I have but few companions on the shore, They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea, Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er Is deeper known upon the strand to me. The middle sea contains no crimson dulse. Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view, Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.
Page 109 - And who, in time, knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent, T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident May come refined with th
Page 314 - And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. No other noyse, nor people's troublous cryes, As still are wont t...
Page 269 - Surely there is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is there any divination against Israel: according to this time it shall be said of Jacob and of Israel, What hath God wrought...
Page 405 - I'm fixed. A nosegay which Time clutched from out Those fair Elysian fields, With weeds and broken stems, in haste, Doth make the rabble rout That waste The day he yields. And here I bloom for a short hour unseen, Drinking my juices up, With no root in the land To keep my branches green, But stand In a bare cup.
Page 103 - Books, not which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man 'cannot read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing institutions — such I call good books.
Page 323 - The frontiers are not east or west, north or south, but wherever a man fronts a fact, though that fact be his neighbor, there is an unsettled wilderness between him and Canada, between him and the setting sun, or, further still, between him and it. Let him build himself a log-house with the bark on where he is, fronting IT, and wage there an Old French war for seven or seventy years, with Indians and Rangers, or whatever else may come between him and the reality, and save his scalp if he can.
Page 187 - T is sweet to hear of heroes dead, To know them still alive, But sweeter if we earn their bread, And in us they survive. Our life should feed the springs of fame With a perennial wave, As ocean feeds the babbling founts Which find in it their grave.