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Pagina 740 - Nothing is more certainly written in the book of fate, than that these people are to be free; nor is it less certain that the two races, equally free, cannot live in the same government.
Pagina 774 - For if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment; and ye have respect to him that weareth the gay clothing, and say unto him, "Sit thou here in a good place;" and say to the poor, "Stand thou there, or sit here under my footstool:" are ye not then partial in yourselves, and are become judges of evil thoughts?
Pagina 721 - Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ado ; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy ; Afar the ocean sleeps ; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets ; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plain — and God renews His ancient rapture.
Pagina 561 - Unargued I obey : so God ordains; God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise.
Pagina 782 - That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona...
Pagina 740 - ... passu, filled up by free white laborers. If, on the contrary, it is left to force itself on, human nature must shudder at the prospect held up.
Pagina 108 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds, too late, that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is— to die.
Pagina 71 - I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray ; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And...
Pagina 352 - A POET'S EPITAPH. Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies, The Poet of the Poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow, and the moor ; His teachers were the torn hearts...
Pagina 721 - The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask — God joys therein.