Naomi: Or, Boston Two Hundred Years Ago

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W. Crosby and H. P. Nichols, 1848 - Boston (Mass.) - 324 pages

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Page 253 - Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
Page 194 - Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamelled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Page 307 - O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down. And steep my senses in forgetfulness...
Page 85 - Alas ! for them — their day is o'er. Their fires are out from hill and shore; No more for them the wild deer bounds, The plough is on their hunting grounds; The pale man's axe rings through their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods, Their pleasant springs are dry ; Their children — look, by power oppressed, Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go -— to die.
Page 17 - ... guarded, and by victory crowned, For all, but gentle charity, renowned. With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart, Even from that land they dared to part, And burst each tender tie ; Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed, Homes, where they fondly hoped at last In peaceful age to die. Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned; Their fathers' hallowed graves ; And to a world of darkness turned, Beyond a world of waves.
Page 97 - But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace, To save his own, or serve another race ; With his frail breath his power has passed away, His deeds, his thoughts are buried with his clay ; Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page Shall link him to a future age, Or give him with the past a rank : His heraldry is but a broken bow, His history but a tale of wrong and woe, His very name must be a blank.
Page 315 - Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession. Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel.
Page 111 - If this fair rose offend thy sight, It in thy bosom wear ; 'T will blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there.
Page 92 - The reverend Eliot began the service with a prayer in English, pronounced with the deep pathos of that voice always so touching. The wind made, as it were, melodious responses, as it stirred the reedy branches of the hemlock. Every heart was touched and soothed, and the Indian women, although they understood not a word, were melted into tears. How appropriate was the text that he chose for his Indian sermon ! — " Come from the four winds, O breath (or spirit), and breathe upon these that they may...
Page 7 - Before these fields were shorn and tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed ; The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood ; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, And fountains spouted in the shade.

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