The Knickerbocker: Or, New-York Monthly Magazine, Volume 9

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Page 105 - I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, Logan is the friend of white men.
Page 553 - To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Page 567 - CALL it not vain :— they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies : Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.
Page 472 - MY days among the Dead are past ; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.
Page 606 - Then the lords of the Philistines brought up to her seven green withs which had not been dried, and she bound him with them. Now there were men lying in wait, abiding with her in the chamber. And she said unto him, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson.
Page 132 - Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
Page 472 - My hopes are with the Dead ; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity ; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.
Page 204 - MY life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground — to die! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see, — But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail, — its date is brief...
Page 110 - CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable night, Brother to death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; With dark forgetting of my care return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of...
Page 423 - Who next ? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump.

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