The Strange Case of Eric Marotté: A Modern-historical Problem-romance of Chicago

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P.F. Pettibone, 1913 - Chicago (Ill.) - 366 pages

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Page 133 - I'm near thee, and grief when away ! Love's young dream. Mr— The Old Woman. Ob ! the days are gone, when beauty bright My heart's chain wove ; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love ! • New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream...
Page 70 - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Page 133 - LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.
Page 133 - Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream : Oh ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.
Page 141 - SOMETHING the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn, Something with passion clasp, or perish, And in itself to ashes burn.
Page 272 - For if she will, she will, you may depend on't, And if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on't...
Page 141 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Page 286 - Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own.
Page 133 - Though he win the wise, who frown 'd before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close, she blush'd to hear The one lov'd name.
Page 194 - They renewed hostilities. They rushed upon Canada. Nothing would satisfy them but blood. The language of their conduct is that of the giant, in the legends of infancy. Fee, Faw, Fow, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman, Dead or alive, I will have some.

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