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Abiel Holmes afterwards American appeared asked Autocrat ballad Bayard Taylor beautiful Biglow Boston bright Bryant called Cambridge character Charles Sumner charm Collegian critic Dante death delight died editor Emerson England essayist essays father favour fire flag genial George William Curtis give graceful hand Harvard Hawthorne heart Henry Wadsworth Longfellow humour James Russell James Russell Lowell John JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER journal journey lady lecture letters lines literary literature live Longfellow look Lord Houghton lover Lowell's lyric mind muse never Oliver Wendell Holmes paper passed Peleg Wadsworth poem poet poet's poetry Prof prose published reader Review Scottish sent slave slavery songs story sweet Thackeray thee things thou thought tion told took touch Union flag verses voice volume Washington Irving Whittier words write written young youth
Page 118 - That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.
Page 88 - He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, " I'd better call agin: " Says she, " Think likely, Mister:" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' . . . Wai, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.
Page 116 - I SAW him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said,
Page 88 - Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha
Page 117 - My grandmamma has said — Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago — That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow...
Page 80 - There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, At the head of a march to...
Page 162 - The house-dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons...
Page 122 - What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill? Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another, to nine tenths me?
Page 35 - There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
Page 130 - Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our will cannot stop them ; they cannot stop themselves ; sleep cannot still them ; madness only makes them go faster ; death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads.