Vara: Or, The Child of Adoption

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Robert Carter & Brothers, 1854 - American fiction - 316 pages

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Page 106 - So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Page 60 - Whatever is, is to me a matter of taste or distaste; or when once it becomes indifferent, it begins to be disrelishing. I am, in plainer words, a bundle of prejudices — made up of likings and dislikings — the veriest thrall to sympathies, apathies, antipathies.
Page 9 - And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.
Page 73 - I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
Page 174 - They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
Page 195 - Does pure religion charm thee Far more than aught below ? Would'st thou that she should arm thee Against the hour of woe ? Think not she dwelleth only In temples built for prayer ; For home itself is lonely, Unless her smiles be there...
Page 9 - O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! ' ;" '""' As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.
Page 172 - O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted.
Page 174 - I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas ! how little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while living ! How heedless are we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness ! But when she is dead and gone, when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts...
Page 174 - For we are the same things our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen. We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And run the same course that our fathers have run.

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