The District School Reader, Or, Exercises in Reading and Speaking: Designed for the Highest Class in Public and Private Schools

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Thomas Cowperthwait & Company, 1845 - 484 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 179 - TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers. And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal ; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
الصفحة 78 - AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's...
الصفحة 393 - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing...
الصفحة 77 - Thy waters wasted them while they were free. And many a tyrant since : their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts; — not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves
الصفحة 260 - The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the, knell of my departed hours : Where are they?
الصفحة 170 - Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
الصفحة 121 - T is something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!
الصفحة 158 - Motionless torrents, silent cataracts, Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God...
الصفحة 448 - What constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate ; Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned ; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No: MEN, high-minded MEN...
الصفحة 168 - Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation ? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

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