Satanstoe; Or, The Littlepage Manuscripts, Томове 1–2

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Burgess, Stringer & Company, 1845
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Страница 23 - I would, there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty ; or that youth would sleep out the rest: for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting.
Страница 182 - Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are ! How less what we may be ! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
Страница 53 - Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.
Страница 78 - ... played! There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews; In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer— a shade! And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.
Страница 152 - tis too horrible ! The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.
Страница 144 - Doom'd o'er the world through devious paths to roam, Each clime my country, and each house my home, My soul is soothed, my cares have found an end, I greet my long lost, unforgotten friend.
Страница 18 - My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
Страница 113 - Do you hear, let them be well used ; for they are the abstract, and brief chronicles, of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph, than their ill report while you live. Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

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