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Page 216 - Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ; And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot ; And thereby hangs a tale.
Page 168 - Let the old timbers part, I will not part, I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me, Thee, Thee at least I know.
Page 266 - I owe my success in life to one single fact, namely, at the age of twentyseven I commenced, and continued for years, the process of daily reading and speaking upon the contents of some historical or scientific book. These off-hand efforts...
Page 354 - She is not dead, — the child of our affection,— But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.
Page 354 - Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.
Page 266 - I commenced, and continued for years, the process of daily reading and speaking upon the contents of some historical or scientific book. These off-hand efforts were made, sometimes in a cornfield, at others in the forest, and not unfrequently in some distant barn, with the horse and ox for my auditors. It is to this early practice in the great art of all arts that I am indebted for the primary and leading impulses that stimulated me forward, and shaped and moulded my entire subsequent destiny.
Page 354 - Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives.
Page 168 - And fades the grass away. 3 Our life contains a thousand springs, And dies if one be gone : Strange ! that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long.
Page 354 - Not as a child shall we again behold her For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her. She will not be a child; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face.