Student and Family Miscellany, Volumes 3-4

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N.A. Calkins, 1851

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Page 137 - Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen...
Page 42 - THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
Page 42 - Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
Page 147 - I've been, From all I've heard, from all I've seen? What know I more that's worth the knowing ? What have I done that's worth the doing ? What have I sought that I should shun ? What duty have I left undone ? Or into what new follies run ? These self-inquiries are the road That leads to virtue and to God.
Page 34 - Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living present! Heart within, and GOD o'erhead!
Page 48 - To you, in David's town, this day " Is born of David's line " The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord ;
Page 77 - He thanked God fervently, that time was still his own ; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land, where sunny harvests wave.
Page 77 - The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him, their erring son ; the lessons they had taught him ; the prayers they had offered up on his behalf.
Page 181 - And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick Are the only sounds I hear ; And over my soul in its solitude Sweet feelings of sadness glide ; For my heart and my eyes are full when I think Of the little boy that died.
Page 143 - That murmurs from his pumpkin leaf trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; Or, if his father lives upon the shore, You'll see his ship, beam ends upon the floor, Full rigged, with raking masts and timbers stanch, And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

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