In Old South Hadley

Blakely Print. Company, 1912 - 221 Seiten

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Seite 25 - LET dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so; Let bears and lions growl and fight, For 'tis their nature too. But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise ; Your little hands were never made To tear each other's eyes.
Seite 69 - O'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
Seite 161 - The foe comes on with haughty stride ; Our troops advance with martial noise ; Their veterans flee before our youth, And generals yield to beardless boys.
Seite 34 - Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go! Then I said to myself, 'My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away.
Seite 34 - But her dog whined low ; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat ; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in. And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on : — 'Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence ! Mistress Mary is dead and gone...
Seite 164 - They left the ploughshare in the mould, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress, To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo, To perish, or o'ercome their foe.
Seite 119 - For the LORD thy God walketh in the midst of thy camp, to deliver thee, and to give up thine enemies before thee; therefore shall thy camp be holy: that he see no unclean thing in thee, and turn away from thee.
Seite 183 - O SING unto the Lord a new song : for he hath done marvellous things : his right hand, and his holy arm, hath gotten him the victory.
Seite 25 - Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.
Seite 135 - Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strew'd the ground, The Indian hunter here his shelter found ; Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true, Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe, Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall, And slew the deer without the rifle ball...

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