Wreaths of Friendship: a Gift for the Young

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Baker & Scribner, 1849 - 240
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Strona 109 - For he who fights and runs away May live to fight another day ; But he who is in battle slain Can never rise and fight again.
Strona 141 - And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain ; But since of late Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.
Strona 120 - WHATEVER brawls disturb the street, There should be peace at home; Where sisters dwell and brothers meet Quarrels should never come. Birds in their little nests agree ; And 'tis a shameful sight, When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight.
Strona 71 - When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air. Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet...
Strona 23 - The mind is its own place, and of itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
Strona 70 - Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There's a human look in its swelling breast. And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — Chime of the hour or funeral knell — The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning...
Strona 69 - STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove ! Thy daily visits have touched my love ! I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves, And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves ? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ? How canst thou bear This noise of people — this...
Strona 47 - VIOLET', violet', sparkling with dew Down in the meadow-land wild where you grew', How did you come by the beautiful blue • With which your soft petals unfold' ? And how do you hold up your tender, young head', When rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed', And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you, shed' Their waters so heavy and cold
Strona 70 - THE cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air: I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet; And I often watch him as he springs.
Strona 142 - Their dances were procession. But now, alas ! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas, Or farther for religion fled, Or else they take their ease.

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