The National Preceptor: Or, Selections in Prose and Poetry: Consisting of Narrative, Descriptive, Argumentative, Didactic, Pathetic, and Humorous Pieces; Together with Dialogues, Addresses, Orations, Speeches. &c. Calculated to Improve the Scholar in Reading and Speaking; and to Impress the Minds of Youth with Sentiments of Piety and Virtue. Designed for the Use of Schools and Academies
Pratt, Woodford, Farmer, and Brace, 1854 - 324 páginas
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The National Preceptor, Or, Selections in Prose and Poetry ...
Visualização integral - 1831
The National Preceptor: Or, Selections in Prose and Poetry: Consisting of ...
Visualização integral - 1841
The National Preceptor, Or, Selections in Prose and Poetry
Pré-visualização indisponível - 2016
answered appeared arms asked beauty began blood born called cause command continued cried dark dead death desire died earth enemy English entered eyes fall father fear fire gave give grave ground hand happy hast head hear heard heart heaven hill honor hope hour human Italy judge kind king land LESSON live look lord lost master mean mind morning nature never night o'er once passed pleasure poor present Pronounced reason received replied rest returned rich rise Roman seen side smile soon soul speak spirit stand tell thee thing thou thought thousand took truth turned uncle virtue voice whole wise wish young youth
Página 154 - Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
Página 181 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Página 293 - The wide, the unbounded prospect, lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us (And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works) he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy.
Página 291 - Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels...
Página 296 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more...
Página 309 - Earth, Repeats the story of her birth : Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
Página 275 - Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir.
Página 152 - The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Página 290 - I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts : I am no orator, as Brutus is ; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood : I only speak right on...
Página 279 - No matter where. Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth; Let's choose executors and talk of wills : And yet not so — for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.