The pictorial sketch-book of Pennsylvania: or, its scenery, internal improvements, resources, and agriculture

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W. White Smith, 1854 - 516 Seiten
 

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Seite 97 - Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or Milky Way: Yet simple Nature to his hope has given.
Seite 292 - But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep ; Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight, Thy sun, thy heaven of lost delight. " To-morrow let us do or die ; But when the bolt of death is...
Seite 293 - But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : Ev'n from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; He bids my soul for battle thirst, He bids me dry the last — the first — The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief.
Seite 67 - Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot, To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Seite 237 - High to their fount, this day, amid the hills, And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks ; The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little naiads love to sport at large.
Seite 97 - I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the Whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.
Seite 291 - Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, — And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be none, In future times — no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee...
Seite 57 - As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the buildingyard, while my boat was in progress, I have often loitered unknown near the idle groups of strangers, gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of scorn, or sneer, or ridicule.
Seite 120 - These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then ! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Seite 270 - Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mockbird's song, or hum of men, While heark'ning, fearing nought their revelry, The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

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