Library of the World's Best Literature: Ancient and Modern

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Charles Dudley Warner
International Society, 1896

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Page 4107 - Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Page 4110 - Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore ! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.
Page 4110 - Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has Learned so much ; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled.
Page 4110 - Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them, by a tune entranced : While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought ; And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice, The total grist unsifted, husks and all.
Page 4111 - Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought ; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.
Page 4111 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Page 4126 - Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you.
Page 4111 - Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder. And plough the distant main : But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.
Page 4109 - The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Page 4102 - With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always liv'd, as other saints do die. Still with his soul severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the sun's laborious light, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.

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