The Knickerbocker: Or, New-York Monthly Magazine, Volume 9

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Page 132 - Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
Page 110 - CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable night, Brother to death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; With dark forgetting of my care return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of...
Page 423 - ... the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man! The water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam, in the miniature tophet, which you mistake for a stomach.
Page 422 - I am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business, and the constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain ; for, all day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike ; and at night, I hold a lantern over my head, both to show where I am, and keep people out of...
Page 105 - 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.
Page 423 - I cry aloud to all and sundry in my plainest accents and at the very tiptop of my voice. Here it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor...
Page 472 - Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
Page 423 - Who next ? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump.
Page 422 - NOON, by the North clock ! Noon, by the east ! High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it ! And, among all the town officers, chosen at...
Page 567 - Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies : Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.

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