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Сторінка 169 - What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship God.
Сторінка 259 - Every man of an immense crowded audience appeared to me to go away as I did, ready to take arms against Writs of Assistance. Then and there, was the first scene of the first act of opposition to the arbitrary claims of Great Britain. Then and there, the child Independence was born.
Сторінка 350 - LANZI'S History of Painting In Italy, from the Period of the Revival of the Fine Arts to the End of the iSth Century.
Сторінка 212 - Take counsel, execute judgment; make thy shadow as the night in the midst of the noonday ; hide the outcasts; bewray not him that wandereth. Let mine outcasts dwell with thee, Moab ; be thou a covert to them from the face of the spoiler : for the extortioner is at an end, the spoiler ceaseth, the oppressors are consumed out of the land.
Сторінка 95 - Say to the court, it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church, it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction: If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.
Сторінка 304 - O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight— Where are those dreamers now? One midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream, is laid ; The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.
Сторінка 31 - And it came to pass that night, that the angel of the LORD went out, and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred fourscore and five thousand : and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses.
Сторінка 128 - ... reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See, where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.