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arms August bear beauty bells beneath bird blessed blue Book Born brave breath Christmas comes Company dark dead dear death deep Died door doth dream earth eyes face fall father fear feel feet fields flowers give gray hand happy hath head hear heard heart heaven hills hope hour human hundred JOHN keep land laugh laws leaves light live look Lord March moon moonlight Nature never night o'er once pain pass plants Poems rain rest riding rise road rose round sail shore side silence sing sleep smile song soul stand stars stood Stories strong sweet tell thee things thou thought tree truth turned voice wait wall wave wild wind wood
Page 107 - And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore. I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
Page 87 - Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Page 41 - The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.
Page 41 - For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word — Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! Amen.
Page 27 - CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. WHO is the happy Warrior ? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be ? — It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought...
Page 109 - Come, read to me some poem. Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time.
Page 12 - For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths— for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.