The professor at the breakfast-tabel

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Houghton Mifflin, 1892
 

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Page 284 - When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near...
Page 49 - ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old : — That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call ".Judge"; It 'sa neat little fiction, — of course it 's all fudge.
Page 162 - Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled...
Page 50 - And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free — Just read on his medal, "My country,
Page 184 - I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.
Page 241 - Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear...
Page 321 - Sun of our life, Thy quickening ray Sheds on our path the glow of day; Star of our hope, Thy softened light Cheers the long watches of the night. Our midnight is Thy smile withdrawn ; Our noontide is Thy gracious dawn ; Our rainbow arch Thy mercy's sign ; All, save the clouds of sin, are Thine...
Page 49 - That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice,
Page 284 - Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near. When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou...
Page 255 - Her hands are cold ; her face is white ; No more her pulses come and go ; Her eyes are shut to life and light; — Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes ; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

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