Outre-mer: or, A pilgrimage to the Old world, by an American [H.W. Longfellow].

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Page 284 - intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths ; all these have vanished. They live no longer in the faith of reason.
Page 310 - The early lark, that erst was mute, Carols to the rising day Many a note and many a lay. Still more remarkable than either of these extracts, as a graphic description of morning, is the following from Beattie's Minstrel:— But who the melodies of morn can tell * The wild brook babbling down the
Page 103 - he comelh unto you ; with a tale, which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimneycorner ; and pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue. SIR
Page 165 - how we may be buried in our survivors. Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been, to be found in the register of God, not in the record of man.
Page 134 - To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high. For which we wait. Yes—the glad messenger of love. To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came ; Born amid mortal cares and fears, He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame. VII.
Page 143 - O, thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed. Our days are covered o'er with grief And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom ; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. XXVI. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in
Page 91 - THE SEXAGENARIAN. Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old, with all the characters of age ? Have you not a moist eye! a dry band ? a yellow cheek ? a white beard
Page 135 - the clear eye and blushing cheek, The hues that play O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,— When hoary age approaches slow, Ah, where are they ? The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight When time swings wide his outward
Page 224 - that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come that cometh not to me ! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend— Tis sweet to watch for thee—alone for thee. His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; His eye is closed ; he sleeps—how still and calm '. Wore not his cheek the apple's
Page 144 - doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care. Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts ; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow. Its form departs.

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