What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Adams American appeared Barlow battle beautiful better born Boston brought called church close College Colonial coming Connecticut Cooper copy daughter death Dwight early England English engraving eyes father Franklin French gave give given gone Governor graces hand Hartford Haven head heart honor interesting Irving issue James John known lady land later less light lines literary lived London look master meet memory mind Miss nature never once painting perhaps poem poet poor portrait present President pretty printed published Quaker river Rugg says seemed side story Street talk tell things Thomas thought tions touch town traveller turn verse Virginia voice Washington Winthrop wonder writing wrote York young
Page 121 - A hundred men, with each a pen, Or more, upon my word, sir, It is most true, would be too few, Their valor to record, sir. " Such feats did they perform that day Against these wicked kegs, sir, That, years to come, if they get home, They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.
Page 62 - The soul of a true Christian, as I then wrote my meditations, appeared like such a little white flower as we see in the spring of the year; low and humble on the ground, opening its bosom to receive the pleasant beams of the sun's glory; rejoicing as it were in a calm rapture; diffusing around a sweet fragrancy; standing peacefully and lovingly, in the midst of other flowers round about; all in like manner opening their bosoms, to drink in the light of the sun.
Page 39 - s heart had each its column, * His head an index to the sacred volume. * His very name a title-page ; and next, * His life a commentary on the text. * O what a monument of glorious worth, * When in a new edition he comes forth, • Without erratas, may we think he'll be, * In leaves and covers of eternity...
Page 286 - When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand, The symbol of her chosen land.
Page 27 - It is no marvel they wear drailes on the hinder part of their heads, having nothing as it seems in the forepart, but a few squirrels' brains to help them frisk from one ill-favored fashion to another.
Page 253 - Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever- common pleasures, To walk abroad and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! When comes such another? FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away! We'll burn his body in the holy place And with the brands fire the traitors
Page 41 - When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth, though old, still clad in green The stones and trees insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come and greenness then do fade, A Spring returns and they more youthfull made; But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid...
Page 22 - There goes many a ship to sea with many hundred souls in one ship, whose weal and woe is common, and is a true picture of a commonwealth, or a human combination or society. It hath fallen out sometimes, that both papists and protestants, Jews and Turks, may be embarked in one ship ; upon which supposal I affirm, that all the liberty of conscience, that ever I pleaded for, turns upon these two hinges — that none of the papists, protestants, Jews or Turks, be forced to come to the ship's prayers...
Page 118 - With stomach stout to see it out, And make a bloody day, sir. The cannons roar from shore to shore, The small arms make a rattle ; Since wars began, I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle. The rebel dales, the rebel vales, With rebel trees surrounded, The distant wood, the hills and floods, With rebel echoes sounded.
Page 288 - Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak; Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek. And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime.