Museum for Young People

Forsideomslag
R. Merrill, 1852
 

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Side 8 - How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
Side 13 - HOW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew...
Side 7 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends , — do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
Side 17 - The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child ! be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, mother...
Side 13 - The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear...
Side 7 - My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Religion ! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can afford.
Side 8 - Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land In a moment I seem to be there ; But alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace And reconciles man to his lot.
Side 7 - Never hear the sweet music of speech; I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see: They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.
Side 6 - Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own.
Side 14 - ... bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! Not -a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

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