Lessons and trials of life, by the author of 'Bertha's journal'.

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127. oldal - Howe'er it be, it seems to me, Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
258. oldal - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but nature more...
26. oldal - Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man must die a maid What then remains but well our power to use, And keep good humour still whate'er we lose? 30 And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail When airs and flights and screams and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll: Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
196. oldal - Not enjoyment and not sorrow. Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
105. oldal - Smitten friends Are angels sent on errands full of love ; For us they languish, and for us they die...
171. oldal - A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.
101. oldal - But chiefly thou, Whom soft-eyed Pity once led down from Heaven To bleed for man, to teach him how to live, And, oh ! still harder lesson ! how to die : Disdain not thou to smooth the restless bed • Of sickness and of pain. — Forgive the tear That feeble nature drops, calm all her fears, Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith, Till my rapt soul, anticipating...
72. oldal - And deemed the deep opake would blot her beams; But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own, Then passing, leaves her in her light serene.
238. oldal - E say they all have passed away, That noble race and brave ; That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave ; That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, There rings no hunter's shout ; But their name is on your waters, Ye may not wash it out.
66. oldal - tis Cupid's fire ; Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek, Yet not a heart to save my pain ? O Venus, take thy gifts again ; Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own. THOMAS WATSON. 1560—1 591. Ekatompathvt, «r Passionate Oenturie of Love.

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