'Way Down East: A Romance of New England Life

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Ogilvie, 1900 - American fiction - 190 pages
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Page 105 - Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good.
Page 164 - THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE. THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child : As through the drifting snow she pressed, The babe was sleeping on her breast.
Page 124 - Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.
Page 91 - Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.
Page 178 - Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight ; the white d air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Page 59 - A MOTHER'S LOVE A MOTHER'S Love, — how sweet the name ! What is a Mother's love ? — A noble, pure, and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould ; The warmest love that can grow cold ; This is a Mother's Love.
Page 49 - Oh ! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
Page 147 - COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle...
Page 156 - It would have been better for all of us if we had not taken you in that day to break up our home with your mischief.
Page 68 - Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain; Bent o'er her babe, her eyes dissolved in dew, The big drops, mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptized in tears.

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