Sketches of New England: Or, Memories of the Country

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E. French, 1842 - New England - 286 pages
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Page 268 - UNVEIL thy bosom, faithful tomb, Take this new treasure to thy trust ; And give these sacred relics room, To seek a slumber in the dust. 2 Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear Invade thy bounds : no mortal woes Can reach the peaceful sleeper here, While angels watch the soft repose. 3 So Jesus slept ; — God's dying Son...
Page 267 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some' moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
Page 266 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress...
Page 103 - I wish the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country : he is a bird of bad moral character; he does not get his living honestly.
Page 104 - ... and, when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to his nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him. With all this injustice he is never in good case ; but, like those among men who live by sharping and robbing, he is generally poor, and often very lousy.
Page 195 - Death is the crown of life : Were death denied, poor man would live in vain : Were death denied, to live would not be life: Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die. Death wounds to cure; we fall, we rise, we reign!
Page 267 - And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart...
Page 260 - Is it well with thee ? is it well with thy husband ? is it well with the child ? And she answered, It is well.
Page 9 - It's no in making muckle mair ; It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest : If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye, That makes us right or wrang.
Page 97 - Who first beholds the Alps — that mighty chain Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal, As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth — But instantly receives into his soul A sense, a feeling that he loses not, A something that informs him 'tis a moment Whence he may date henceforward and for ever...

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