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The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then brather a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the p
The pamet brow she blesses,
hut her secret god,
the pain that
as ver the sod
Received on Freedoms field of honor.
rose from bu untroubled sleep, a put away her soft brown hair,
they love I pist whisper, breath ha prayer
Believe me still, as I have
Ide steadfast liver & sherly liberty;
weakness, with that be mantend were
Free and by blood redeemed but out by crud;
teach fitter broken but some & Whitt
"You are old, Father William," the young man | O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,
More sweetly shows the blushing bride
A soul whose intellectual beams
"And life must be hastening away ;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death; No mists do mask, no lazy streams
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer's day!
"I am cheerful, young man," Father William Wouldst see a man whose well-warmed blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood?
A man whose tunèd humors be
"Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remembered my God! A seat of rarest harmony?
And he hath not forgotten my age."
FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT,” ACT II. SC. 2.
ADAM. Let me be your servant;
Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty :
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility.
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP
Go now! and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and, whilst they tug,
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go take physic - dote upon
Some big-named composition,
The oraculous doctor's mystic bills-
Certain hard words made into pills;
And what at last shalt gain by these?
Only a costlier disease.
That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.
Hark, hither, reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wilt see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well —
Her garments that upon her sit
As garments should do, close and fit --
A well-clothed soul that 's not oppressed
Nor choked with what she should be dressed -
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine:
As when a piece of wanton lawn,
A thin aerial veil, is drawn
Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile
Age? Wouldst see December smile?
Wouldst see nest of new roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's self into a spring?
In sum, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leadened hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;
And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay
A kiss, a sigh, and so away?
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark, hither! and thyself be he!