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Seite 42 - Happy the man*, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire.
Seite 20 - And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep...
Seite 72 - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He who made him such, Who centred in our make such strange extremes! From different natures marvellously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity!
Seite 114 - Experience of it: Several of our Young People were formerly brought up at the Colleges of the Northern Provinces; they were instructed in all your Sciences; but when they came back to us, they were bad Runners, ignorant of every means of living in the Woods, unable to bear either Cold or Hunger, knew neither how to build a Cabin, take a Deer, or kill an Enemy, spoke our Language imperfectly; were therefore neither fit for Hunters, Warriors, or Counsellors; they were totally good for nothing. We are...
Seite 32 - Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice ; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
Seite 57 - They sin who tell us Love can die. With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity ; In Heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell : Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth; But Love is indestructible : Its holy flame for ever burneth, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth.
Seite 32 - Some have too much, yet still do crave; I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store: They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
Seite 18 - To BLOSSOMS FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night?
Seite 34 - LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood — Even such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.