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W. Pickering, 1837 - 357 pages

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Page 41 - Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.
Page 255 - In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care.
Page 43 - I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The...
Page 41 - ... together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes...
Page 44 - When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery, — When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, — Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
Page 42 - When he walks with me, the country folk, Who pass us in the street, Will shout for joy. and bless my boy, He looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all.
Page 40 - With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave, and wise of heart, beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be : I know his face is fair ; And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air. I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he loveth me ; But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency.
Page 180 - From neighb'ring fort or citadel ; No sound of human toil or strife To death's lone dwelling speaks of life, Nor breaks the silence still and deep Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid in that unstartled sleep The living eye hath never known. The lonely sexton's footstep falls In dismal echoes on the walls, As, slowly pacing through the aisle, He sweeps th...
Page 185 - My boyish days are nearly gone, My breast is not unsullied now ; And worldly cares and woes will soon Cut their deep furrows on my brow — And life will take a darker hue From ills my Brother never knew.

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