Youth: Or Scenes from the Past; and Other Poems

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C. C. Little and J. Brown, 1841 - American poetry - 144 pages
 

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Page 81 - Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed; in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving, boundless, endless, and sublime, — The image of Eternity, the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Page 98 - Familiar as his garter: that, when he speaks, The air, a charter'd libertine, is still, And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears, To steal his sweet and honey'd sentences...
Page 38 - If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work...
Page 58 - While many of his tribe slumber'd around ; And they were canopied by the blue sky. So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
Page 144 - For truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam, though this ill hap wait on her nativity, that she never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought her forth; till time, the midwife rather than the mother of truth,12 have washed and salted the infant, declared her legitimate, and churched the father of his young Minerva14 from the needless causes of his purgation.
Page 94 - Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now.
Page 112 - What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize: A better would you fix?
Page 95 - More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days, On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues, In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, And solitude; yet not alone, while thou Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when Morn Purples the East.
Page 65 - Let me play the fool : With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine, Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster...
Page 102 - He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withes.

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