Chambers's graduated readers, Sách 4

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1883
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Trang 99 - His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Trang 223 - The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave...
Trang 223 - Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Trang 148 - The boy ! — oh, where was he ? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, — With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part ; But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart ! THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Trang 147 - Say, Father, say, if yet my task is done ? " He knew not that the chieftain lay, unconscious of his son. ' Speak, Father ! " once again he cried, " if I may yet be gone ! And " — but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on.
Trang 100 - Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! ENDYMION.
Trang 127 - Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Trang 164 - Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry.
Trang 43 - Woodman, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not.
Trang 126 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

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