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Page 148 - How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!
Page 10 - Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age. Its first appearance is the fated omen of growing depravity and future shame.
Page 81 - Melancthon affords a striking lecture on the value of time, by informing us that, when he made an appointment, he expected not only the hour, but the minute to be fixed, that the day might not run out in the idleness of suspense...
Page 38 - If the Spring put forth no blossoms, in Summer there will be no beauty, and in Autumn. no fruit. So if youth be trifled away without improvement, manhood will be contemptible, and old age miserable.
Page 164 - Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains ; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains.
Page 4 - EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ERE Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care ; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed And bade it blossom there.
Page 88 - I crushed by bursts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and lady Friendly chide her daughters ; for the measure of my shame and their diversion was not yet complete. To...
Page 87 - I will not relate the several blunders which I made during the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desired to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near me, spilling a sauceboat, and knocking down a salt-cellar ; rather let me hasten to the second course, " where fresh disasters overwhelmed me quite.
Page 52 - The bee awaked and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries ; To Venus quick he runs, he flies ! ' Oh mother ! I am wounded through— I die with pain — in sooth I do ! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing — A bee it was —for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so.