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" The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom — Take the wings Of morning — and the Barcan... "
The Wheat-sheaf; Or, Gleanings for the Wayside and Fireside ... - Page 197
1853 - 416 pages
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The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song: Selected from English and American ...

Charlotte Fiske Bates Rogé - American poetry - 1832 - 882 pages
...the tribes That slumber In its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls...there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The night of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep; the dead reign there alone. So shalt...
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The Foreign Quarterly Review

English literature - 1832
...of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning,...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began,...
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The Museum of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, Volume 21

Robert Walsh, Eliakim Littell, John Jay Smith - 1832
...All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the winfs Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings; yet the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes,...
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The Metropolitan, Volume 3

1832
...lapse of ages. All that tread The glohe are hut a handful to the trihes That slumher in its hosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods W here rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings ; yet the dead are there, And millious...
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The American Quarterly Observer, Volume 1

Bela Bates Edwards - Theology - 1833
...of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning...lose thyself in the continuous woods "Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there ; And millions in...
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Southern Literary Messenger, Volume 3

1837
...amid the forcible and even Miltonic rhythm of such lines as Take the wings Of morning, and the Barran desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan. But these arc trivial faults indeed, and the poem embodies a great degree of the most elevated...
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Selections from the American Poets: With Some Introductory Remarks

American poetry - 1834 - 357 pages
...death, • Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barean desert pieree ; Or lose thyself in the eontinuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no...
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The American First Class Book: Or, Exercises in Reading and ..., Book 4

John Pierpont - Readers - 1835 - 480 pages
...of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that treat TLe globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there, And millions in those...
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The American Orator's Own Book: Or, The Art of Extemporaneous Public ...

Oratory - 1836 - 328 pages
...of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning,...Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his owndashings; yet — the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of...
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The Laurel: a Gift for All Seasons: Being a Collection of Poems

American poetry - 1836 - 252 pages
...of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own.dashings — yet — the dead are there, And millions in those...
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