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Página 336 - Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord its various tone, Each spring its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Página 275 - Alas ! the love of women ! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone...
Página 469 - On his leaving the room, to confirm or remove my doubts as to the cause of his lameness, I uncovered the pilgrim's feet, and was answered — the great mystery was solved. Both his feet were clubbed, and his legs withered to the knee — the form and features of an Apollo, with the feet and legs of a sylvan satyr.
Página 466 - Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way ; Where fell the dead, the living slept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.
Página 466 - The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play ; Where orange boughs above their grave, Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.
Página 154 - Give back my twentieth spring! 1 'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy Than reign a gray-beard king! Off with the wrinkled spoils of age! Away with learning's crown! Tear out life's wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame! — My listening angel heard the prayer, And calmly smiling, said, " If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped. • " But is there...
Página 372 - I sat listening To my fancy's wildest word : On a sudden, through the glistening Leaves around, a little stirred, Came a sound, a sense of music which was rather felt than heard.
Página 240 - But the scale on which he represents them is increased or diminished, not according to the dignity of the persons concerned in them, but according to the degree in which they elucidate the condition of society and the nature of man.
Página 239 - Jordan. perfect historian is he in whose work the character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony «» By judicious selection, rejection and arrangement, he gives to truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction.
Página 102 - Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild And terrorless as this serenest night : Here could I hope, like some inquiring child Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep.