Daniel Webster in England: Journal of Harriette Story Paige, 1839

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Houghton Mifflin, 1917 - Biography & Autobiography - 370 pages
 

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Page 186 - Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave : To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form : she bow'd to taste the wave, And died.
Page 140 - Some banish'd lover or some captive maid; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires; The virgin's wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And.waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Page 36 - But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Page 138 - Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, Ah, fields beloved in vain, Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Page 290 - Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
Page 186 - Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Bid them in Duty's sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free; As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. Tell them, though...
Page 181 - Of mighty Shakespeare's birth, the room, we see; That, where he died, in vain to find we try; Useless the search — for all immortal he — And those, who are immortal, never die.
Page 181 - Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare : Bleste be the man that spares thes stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.
Page 130 - There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns ; And there he blasts the tree...
Page 47 - twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old, — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

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