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Стр. 163 - This is my own, my native land"? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand?
Стр. 167 - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Стр. 162 - Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may...
Стр. 163 - O lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turf, And at his heels a stone.
Стр. 162 - All that's bright must fade, — The brightest still the fleetest ; All that's sweet was made, But to be lost when sweetest.
Стр. 154 - Give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name; worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.
Стр. 139 - Know then this truth (enough for man to know) 'Virtue alone is happiness below.
Стр. 161 - When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh ! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing, On the gay hearth blazing, Oh ! still remember me. Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee ; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, — Oh ! then remember me.
Стр. 154 - Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.
Стр. 165 - Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

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