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Página 258 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Página 307 - They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"— He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!
Página 60 - I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come, and men may go, But I go on forever.
Página 199 - My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will...
Página 18 - There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome laud, Though the dark night is near.
Página 366 - If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard — All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard — For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Página 345 - Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since,— his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl.
Página 39 - 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, Was not spoken of the soul.
Página 198 - O CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.