A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1893 - 531 páginas

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Página 8 - By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Página 82 - DO not do unto others as you would that they should do unto you.
Página 150 - Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
Página 120 - And who, in time, knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent, T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident May come refined with th
Página 113 - Books, not which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man 'cannot read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing institutions — such I call good books.
Página 391 - The frontiers are not east or west, north or south; but wherever a man fronts a fact, though that fact be his neighbor, there is an unsettled wilderness between him and Canada, between him and the setting sun, or, farther still, between him and it. Let him build himself a log house with the bark on where he is, fronting IT, and wage there an Old French war for seven or seventy years, with Indians and Rangers, or whatever else may come between him and the reality, and save his scalp if he can.
Página 118 - Olympian bards who sung Divine ideas below, Which always find us young, And always keep us so.
Página 194 - Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Página 504 - Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day: Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born.
Página 334 - And what avails it now that we are wise, If absence doth this doubleness contrive ? Eternity may not the chance repeat, But I must tread my single way alone, In sad remembrance that we once did meet, And know that bliss irrevocably gone.

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