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Historic Shrines of America; Being the Story of One Hundred and Twenty ...
John Thomson Faris
No preview available - 2016
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Page 144 - IN that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And. the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest, As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
Page 268 - Gentlemen may cry, Peace, peace! — but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
Page 18 - The riches of the Commonwealth Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health ; And more to her than gold or grain, The cunning hand and cultured brain.
Page 373 - My friends : no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington.
Page 109 - I am much at a loss to conceive what part of my conduct could have given encouragement to an address, which to me seems big with the greatest mischiefs that can befall my country.
Page 402 - THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
Page 55 - We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back, — The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout back-stick ; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush ; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom...
Page 370 - I am afraid you would not be satisfied. There is a great deal of flourishing about in carriages here, which it would be your doom to see without shareing in it. You would have to be poor without the means of hiding your poverty. Do you believe you could bear that patiently?
Page 140 - You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word Down at Springfield? What, No? Come — that's bad. Why he had All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name Of the "rebel high priest.
Page 403 - LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea ; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.