New York Illustrated Magazine Annual

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430. oldal - ... cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the well-enchanting skill of music; and with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play and old men from the chimney corner...
410. oldal - Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. With the sky above my head. And the grass beneath my feet ; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!
108. oldal - This should have been a noble creature: he Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements, Had they been wisely mingled; as it is, It is an awful chaos — light and darkness, And mind and dust, and passions and pure thoughts, Mix'd, and contending without end or order, All dormant or destructive.
286. oldal - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
273. oldal - Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay ; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, No stone is there to show, no tongue to say, What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.
430. oldal - I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet...
415. oldal - I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.
153. oldal - Joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys. Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried Joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art freedom's now and fame's, One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.
345. oldal - He the half of life abuses That sits watering with the Muses. Those dull girls no good can mean us; Wine it is the milk of Venus, And the poet's horse accounted; Ply it, and you all are mounted.
272. oldal - Thus lived- thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful- such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.

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