Echoes of the Aesthetic Society of Jersey City

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Thompson and Moreau, 1882 - American literature - 255 pages
 

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Page 18 - Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.
Page 50 - All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Page 16 - Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given ! Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
Page 123 - It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled ; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered.
Page 124 - I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — "Because, you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her, — because they love him.
Page 123 - He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing. And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because...
Page 16 - When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand, The symbol of her chosen land.
Page 122 - STILL sits the schoolhouse by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow. And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats. The jack-knife's carved initial; The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school.
Page 245 - Lord! hast power to save. I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
Page 240 - IN a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender ; Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er trod that way : Earth was young and keeping holiday.

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