Boston Common: Tale of Our Own Times

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J. French, 1856 - Boston Common (Boston, Mass.) - 556 pages
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Page 389 - We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key ; As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate.
Page 516 - Then came Peter to him, and said ; Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him ? till seven times ? Jesus saith unto him ; I say not unto thee, until seven times, but until seventy times seven.
Page 366 - O gentlemen, the time of life is short ! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
Page 188 - OH ! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.
Page 240 - Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Page 430 - But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding isles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Page 194 - How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break?
Page 547 - Tis never woman's part Out of her fond misgivings to perplex The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 'Tis hers to weave all that she has of fair And bright in the dark meshes of their web Inseparate from their windings.
Page 10 - Oh, -woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou.
Page 35 - And elegance, and taste : the faultless form, Shaped by the hand of harmony ; the cheek, Where the live crimson, through the native white Soft-shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, And every nameless grace ; the parted lip, Like the red rose-bud moist with morning dew, Breathing delight...

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