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書籍 書目11 - 20,共 147 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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English grammar: with an improved syntax

John March Putnam - 1831 - 162 頁
...pierce, Or loose thyself in the contmuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save Iiis own dashings, — yet the dead are there, And millions...in those solitudes, since first The flight of years bega*u, hare laid them down In their last sleep ; the dead reign there alone. So shalt them rest—...
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The Foreign Quarterly Review, 第 10 卷

1832
...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 And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began,...
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The Museum of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, 第 21 卷

Robert Walsh, Eliakim Littell, John Jay Smith - 1832
...All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the winfs 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 solitudes,...
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The Metropolitan, 第 3 卷

1832
...lapse of ages. All that tread The glohe are hut a handful to the trihes That slumher in its hosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods W here rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings ; yet the dead are there, And millious...
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The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song

Charlotte Fiske Bates - 1832 - 882 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. — Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and...
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The American Quarterly Observer, 第 1-2 卷

Bela Bates Edwards - 1833
...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...
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Selections from the American Poets: With Some Introductory Remarks

1834 - 357 頁
...shining on the ad 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. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barean desert pieree ; Or lose thyself in the eontinuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no...
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The American First Class Book: Or, Exercises in Reading and Recitation ...

John Pierpont - 1835 - 480 頁
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that treat TLe 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 Orator's Own Book: Or, The Art of Extemporaneous Public ...

1836 - 328 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....Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his owndashings; yet — the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of...
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The Laurel: a Gift for All Seasons: Being a Collection of Poems

1836 - 252 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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