The American First Class Book; Or, Exercises in Reading and Recitation: Selected Principally from Modern Authors of Great Britain and America : and Designed for the Use of the Highest Class in Publick and Private SchoolsHilliard, Gray, Little and Wilkins and Richardson, Lord & Holbrook, 1831 - 480页 |
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arms art thou beauty beneath bless bosom breath bright Brutus Cadmus called clouds dark dead death deep delight dreadful Duellist earth eternal Eurystheus eyes fantastick father fear feel Fingal friends gaze George Somers give glory grave hand happy hath head hear heard heart heaven hills honour hope hour human irreligion labours LESSON light live look Lord Lycidas Macd mind moon morning mortal mountain mournful Mozart mummies musick nature never night o'er Old Mortality peace pleasure Pompey's Pillar poor Pron Pythias religion rise rocks round scene seemed Shakspeare sight silent sleep smile sorrow soul sound spect spirit stood stream sublime sweet tears tender terrour thee thine thing thought tion tomb trees truth uncle Toby virtue voice Wallace's Cave wandering waters waves wild winds words youth
热门引用章节
第406页 - entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing, in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all
第302页 - To a Waterfowl.—Bryant. Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way 1 Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy
第304页 - his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
第405页 - Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears. And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praise, Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil, Set oft' to the world, nor in broad rumour lies: