The Monthly Repository and Library of Entertaining Knowledge, Том 4

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Francis S. Wiggins, 1834
 

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Сторінка 30 - Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun...
Сторінка 407 - Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
Сторінка 34 - They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as follows; "Friends," says he, and neighbours, "the taxes are indeed very heavy, and if those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot...
Сторінка 333 - To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share and treads upon : the oak Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.
Сторінка 257 - Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Сторінка 72 - Live while you live, the Epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day. Live while you live, the sacred Preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies.
Сторінка 407 - To cause it to rain on the earth, where no man is; On the wilderness, wherein there is no man; To satisfy the desolate and waste ground; And to cause the bud of the tender herb to spring forth?
Сторінка 370 - No endless night, yet not eternal day; The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay: Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
Сторінка 333 - Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods, rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and poured round all Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
Сторінка 334 - 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 That slumber in its bosom.

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