The Collegian, Випуски 1 – 6

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Hilliard and Brown., 1830
 

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Сторінка 12 - Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls : Who steals my purse steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing ; "Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands ; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
Сторінка 12 - Of every hearer; for it so falls out, That what we have we prize not to the worth, Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value; then we find The virtue, that possession would not show us, Whiles it was ours...
Сторінка 285 - I WROTE some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good. They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I. I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb ! "These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay.
Сторінка 286 - The fourth ; he broke into a roar ; The fifth ; his waistband split ; The sixth ; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.
Сторінка 263 - Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Сторінка 256 - Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these thy puny brethren ; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments. Is that a swan that rides upon the water ? 0 no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling.
Сторінка 256 - ... ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe ! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Сторінка 71 - Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd ; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot ; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw...
Сторінка 71 - Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days. The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
Сторінка 176 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more...

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