Poetical Works, Volume 1

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Page 167 - The curse of the Lord is in the house of the wicked: but he blesseth the habitation of the just.
Page 83 - I would go under his window and softly call him, he, after the first time excepted, never failed to put out his head at the first call, thus we talked together, and sometimes I was so wet with the rain, that it went in at my neck and out at my heels.
Page 381 - God's will be done ! Long for work did he seek, Work he found none. Tears on his hollow cheek Told what no tongue could speak : Why did his master break? God's will be done ! Doctor said air was best — Food we had none ; Father, with panting breast, Groaned to be gone : Now he is with the blest — Mother says death is best ! We have no place of rest — Yes, we have one ! BATTLE SONG.
Page 244 - The trailing bramble hath not yet a sprout ; Yet harshly to the wind the wanton prates, Not with thy smooth lisp, woodbine of the fields! Thou future treasure of the bee, that waits Gladly on thee, spring's harbinger ! when yields All bounteous earth her odorous flowers, and builds The nightingale, in beauty's fairest land.
Page 165 - ... were made at the time of the event. It was then considered as the extinction of a virulent and implacable enemy ; it is now viewed as the fall of a great warrior, a penetrating statesman, and a mighty prince. It then excited universal joy and congratulation, as a prelude to the close of a merciless war ; it now awakens sober reflections on the instability of empire, the peculiar destiny of the aboriginal race, and the inscrutable decrees of Heaven.
Page 398 - To arms ! away ! They come ! they come ! the knell is rung Of us or them ; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collar'd hound of lawless sway, To famine dear — What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear?
Page 28 - He prattled less in accents void of guile, Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave, Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave ; Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew ; Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue; Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died. And timid, trembling, came he to my side. He was my all on earth. Oh ! who can speak The anxious mother's too prophetic woe, Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek, And strives in vain to think it is not so? Ah ! many a sad...
Page 369 - Oh, for a Saint, like those who sought and found, For conscience' sake, sad homes beyond the main ! — The Fathers of New England, who unbound, In wild Columbia, Europe's double chain ; The men whose dust cries, ' Sparta, live again !' The slander'd Calvinists of Charles's time Fought, and they won it, Freedom's holy fight. Like prophet-bards, although they hated rhyme, All incorruptible as heaven's own light, Spoke each devoted preacher for the right.
Page 199 - Then, no strange paths perplex'd thee — no new streets, Where draymen bawl, while rogues kick up a row ; And fishwives grin, while fopling fopling meets...

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