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書籍 書目51 - 60,共 175 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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The Art of Elocution: Or, Logical and Musical Reading and Declamation. With ...

George Vandenhoff - 1847 - 383 頁
...shining as the sad abodes of death, Thro' the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save of his own dashings ; yet, — the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The...
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Poems

William Cullen Bryant - 1847 - 378 頁
...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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Town's Third Reader: Containing a Selection of Lessons, Exclusively from ...

Salem Town - 1848 - 288 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....of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—"the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the...
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Beauties of Sacred Literature: Illustrated by Eight Steel Engravings

1848 - 220 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, and the Barean desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hear no sounds...
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Beauties of Sacred Literature: Illustrated by Eight Steel Engravings

1848 - 220 頁
...but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom — take the wings Of morning, and the Barean desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hear no sounds Save its own dashings ; yet the dead are there. And millions in those solitudes, since...
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Gems of Poetry, from Forty-eight American Poets: Embracing the Most Popular ...

1848 - 252 頁
...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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The Metropolitan, 第 56 卷

1849
...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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Poems

William Cullen Bryant - 1847 - 371 頁
...lapse of ages. All that tread s ty~^ cvv S The globe are but a handful to the tribes ' c " ? J1 ^ C. That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning...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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Class book of prose and poetry: consisting of selections from the best ...

Truman Rickard, Hiram Orcutt - 1850 - 120 頁
...All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 50 Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose...there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first 55 The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone....
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GEMS OF POETRY, FROM FORTY-EIGHT AMERICAN POETS.

1850
...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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