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Page 25 - His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair! Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round...
Page 155 - Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn, Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, And last, Man's Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.
Page 155 - Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests,, and scattering high their spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea.
Page 155 - Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat.~ All shall come back ; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again ; Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, i And her, who, still and cold, Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young.
Page 16 - PRAYER. ALMIGHTY Father! let thy lowly child, Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold, — A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled, , Let him live usefully, and not die old! Let poor men's children, pleased to read his lays, Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been, And when he ends his pilgrimage of days, Let him be buried where the grass is green, Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late To hear the bee his busy note prolong; There let him slumber, and in peace await The dawning...
Page 13 - Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh ! revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer, — For thou may'st live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn ! STANZAS.
Page 178 - Man alone seems to be the only creature who has arrived to the natural size in this poor soil. Every part of the country presents the same dismal landscape. No grove,* nor brook, lend their music to cheer the stranger, or make the inhabitants forget their poverty.
Page 177 - How many good excuses (and you know I was ever good at an excuse) might I call up to vindicate my past shameful silence. I might tell how I wrote a long letter on my first coming hither, and seem vastly angry at my not receiving an answer ; I might allege that business (with business you know I was always pestered) had never given me time to finger a pen. But I suppress...
Page 177 - No turnspit-dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance than I sit down to write ; yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns better than I do him I now address.
Page 144 - I am convinced, will it be the least of his merits in your eyes, that his writings are imbued with the independent spirit, and the buoyant aspirations incident to a youthful, a free, and a rising country.