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書籍 書目1 - 10,共 117 頁;搜尋條件:Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The...
" Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes... "
The Fifth Reader of the School and Family Series - 第 315 頁
Marcius Willson 著 - 1862 - 538 頁
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Specimens of the American Poets

Henry Roscoe - 1822 - 283 頁
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his -own dashings — yet, the dead are there, And millions in those...
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The Inquirer, 第 1 卷

1822
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous .woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet, the dead are there, And millions in those...
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The American First Class Book, Or, Exercises in Reading and Recitation, 第 4 冊

John Pierpont - 1823 - 480 頁
...ginning on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes . •„ That slumber in its...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, 22 * 2S8 THE AMERICAN (Lew<ra 11T. Save his own dashings — yet — the...
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English Grammar: With an Improved Syntax. Part I. Comprehending at One View ...

1828 - 180 頁
...THANATOPSIS- BRYANT. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosoro. — Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods * Tear*, is a noun without a governing word ; Rule 15.— Hence, is an adverb ami qualities is understood...
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Kettell, Samuel: Specimens of American Poetry...

1829
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings— yet— the dead are there, And millions hi those...
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The Edinburgh literary journal; or, Weekly register of criticism and belles ...

1829
...shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages— all that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the contiguous woods, Where rolls the Oregnn, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead...
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The Edinburgh Literary Journal: Or, Weekly Register of Criticism and ..., 第 2 卷

1829
...momipg, and the Barcnn desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the contiguous woods, Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the...are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since (irst The flight of vcars began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone....
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Sermons

Cornelius Roosevelt Duffie - 1829
...that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. ——Millions — since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep." From their graves a small still voice seems to convey this prophetic caution to our hearts : " So shalt...
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Specimens of American Poetry: With Critical and Biographical Notices ..., 第 3 卷

Samuel Kettell - 1829
...globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there, And millions in those...
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Studies in Poetry: Embracing Notices of the Lives and Writings of the Best ...

George Barrell Cheever - 1830 - 480 頁
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there, And millions in those...
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