Curran and His Contemporaries

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Harper & brothers, 1862 - 451 pages

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Page 12 - When I remember all The friends so linked together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed...
Page 262 - OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. OH ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid ; Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Page 268 - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.
Page 129 - Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
Page 256 - I have always understood it to be the duty of a judge, when a prisoner has been convicted, to pronounce the sentence of the law; I have also understood that judges sometimes think it their duty to hear with patience and to speak with humanity...
Page 251 - I in the most express terms deny the competency of parliament to do this act — I warn you, do not dare to lay your hand on the Constitution. I tell you that if, circumstanced as you are, you pass this act, it will be a nullity, and that no man in Ireland will be bound to obey it.
Page 75 - And this soothing hope I draw from the dearest and tenderest recollections of my life ; from the remembrance of those attic nights and those refections of the gods which we have partaken with those admired, and respected, and beloved companions who have gone before us ; over whose ashes the most precious tears of Ireland have been shed.
Page 163 - ... tossing upon the surface of the ocean, and mingling his groans with those tempests less savage than his persecutors that drift him to a returnless distance from his family and his home.
Page 158 - In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm, In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home.
Page 44 - Talk not to me of peace ! Ireland is not in a state of peace : it is smothered war. England has sown her laws like dragons...

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