Criminals of America: Or, Tales of the Lives of Thieves. Enabling Every One to be His Own Detective. With Portraits, Making a Complete Rogues' Gallery

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P. Farley, 1876 - Crime - 638 pages
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Page 401 - Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
Page 171 - The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, Dear as the blood ye gave ; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Page 257 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, • Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Page 171 - No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind ; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.
Page 171 - neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield ; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes
Page 171 - The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past...
Page 562 - ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
Page 171 - Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.
Page 481 - Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold, Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled : Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould ; Price of many a crime untold ; Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold...
Page 168 - The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.

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