Naomi, Or, Boston Two Hundred Years Ago

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Wm. Crosby & H.P. Nichols, 111 Washington Street, 1848 - 448 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 248 - Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
Pàgina 208 - Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamelled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Pàgina 87 - Alas ! for them — their day is o'er. Their fires are out from hill and shore; No more for them the wild deer bounds, The plough is on their hunting grounds; The pale man's axe rings through their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods, Their pleasant springs are dry ; Their children — look, by power oppressed, Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go -— to die.
Pàgina 100 - But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace, To save his own, or serve another race ; With his frail breath his power has passed away, His deeds, his thoughts are buried with his clay ; Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page Shall link him to a future age, Or give him with the past a rank : His heraldry is but a broken bow, His history but a tale of wrong and woe, His very name must be a blank.
Pàgina 299 - Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession. Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel.
Pàgina 60 - The sceptre's might, the crosier's pride, Ye do not fear ; No conquest blade, in life-blood dyed, Drops terror here — Let there not lurk a subtler snare, For wisdom's footsteps to beware ; The shackle and the stake...
Pàgina 59 - XXVI. Take then my prayer, Ye dwellers of this spot — Be yours a noiseless and a guiltless lot. I plead not that ye bask In the rank beams of vulgar fame ; To light your steps I ask A purer and a holier flame. No bloated growth I supplicate for you, No pining multitude, no pampered few ; 'Tis not alone to coffer gold, Nor spreading borders to behold...

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