My First Book. Named Otherwise: Lispings, Yearnings, and Mutterings

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Alden's Printing Works, 1873 - 142 pages
 

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Page 10 - Ah ! what would the world be to us If the children were no more ? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.
Page 10 - Come to me, O ye children ! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks ? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said ; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.
Page 132 - THAT AND A' THAT Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by; We dare be poor for a' that! For a
Page 10 - And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long...
Page 132 - 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.
Page 10 - Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 90 With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song.
Page 132 - Were I so tall to reach the pole Or grasp the ocean with my span, I must be measured by my soul : The mind's the standard of the man.
Page 132 - A Man's a Man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a
Page 88 - Pandora ! Dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee ! for this feeling Of unrest and long resistance Is but passionate appealing, A prophetic whisper stealing O'er the chords of our existence. Him whom thou dost once enamour, Thou beloved, never leavest; In life's discord, strife, and clamor Still he feels thy spell of glamour; Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.

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