The Life and Writings of De Witt Clinton

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Baker and Scribner, 1849 - 381

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Strona xxxi - When your Lordships look at the papers transmitted to us from America ; when you consider their decency, firmness, and wisdom, you cannot but respect their cause, and wish to make it your own.
Strona 192 - That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.
Strona 287 - For to say, that a blind custom of obedience should be a surer obligation than duty taught and understood; it is to affirm, that a blind man may tread surer by a guide than a seeing man can by a light.
Strona 313 - Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th...
Strona 349 - Of Law there can be no less acknowledged, than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world : all things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power : both Angels and Men, and creatures of what condition soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all, with uniform consent, admiring her as the Mother of their peace and joy.
Strona 336 - ... a couch whereupon to rest a searching and restless spirit; or a terrace for a wandering and variable mind to walk up and down with a fair prospect; or a tower of state for a proud mind to raise itself upon; or a fort or commanding ground for strife and contention; or a shop for profit or sale; and not a rich storehouse for the glory of the Creator and the relief of man's estate.
Strona 354 - We may go where we please, and carry with us whom we please, and buy and sell what we please : if your allies be your slaves, use them as such, command them to receive no other but your people.
Strona 238 - Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter, His horse's hoofs wet with Patrician blood ! Oh, Portius ! is there not some chosen curse, Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man, Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin ? PORTIUS.
Strona 217 - Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. Silence, ye troubled waves, and thou deep, peace, Said then the omnific Word, your discord end.
Strona 353 - I thank you, in their name, for bringing back into their country the calumet, which your predecessor received from their hands. It was happy for you, that you left under ground that murdering hatchet that has been so often dyed in the blood of the French.

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