The Chess Journal, Volumes 70-82

Front Cover
O. A. Brownson., 1876 - Chess
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Page 187 - Mid Life's perplexing chequers made, And many a game with Fortune played; — What is it we have won? This, this at least, — if this alone: That never, never, never more, As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together!
Page 4 - STAND up, and bless the Lord, Ye people of His choice ; Stand up, and bless the Lord your God, With heart and soul and voice.
Page 144 - Each essay must be designated by a motto, and accompanied by a sealed envelope, bearing the same motto, and enclosing the name and address of the author. The essay receiving the prize will become the property of the society for publication; others will be returned on application. Essays should be sent to the Literature Committee, Room 315, McPhee Building, Denver, Colorado.
Page 29 - Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Page 5 - God is our Strength and Song, And His salvation ours : Then be His love in Christ proclaimed, With all our ransomed powers.
Page 187 - Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes? Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave...
Page 187 - Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle's done : Disperst is all its chivalry.
Page 38 - The counterbuffs of the foure painted kings : Those worthy combatants have had their times And battells sung in thousand curious rimes. I sing the fierce alarme, and direfull stroke Of passing timbred men, all heart of oake ; Men that scorne armes defensive, nor, in heat Of bloudy broiles, complaine of dust or sweat. Men that doe thinke, no victory is fit That's not compacted by the reach of wit. Men that an ambuscado know to lay, T'entrap the foe in his retiring way; Plot stratagems, and teach their...

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