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" Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes... "
The Fifth Reader of the School and Family Series - Page 315
by Marcius Willson - 1862 - 538 pages
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Specimens of the American Poets

1822 - 298 pages
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his -own dashings — yet, the dead are there, And millions in those...
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The Inquirer, Volume 1

1822 - 764 pages
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous .woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet, the dead are there, And millions in those...
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The Wesleyan-Methodist Magazine

1857 - 1196 pages
...those of death ; or rather, the inspiration of the former is everywhere consecrated by the latter. " Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods M'here rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings, — yet — the dead are there...
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The American First Class Book, Or, Exercises in Reading and Recitation

John Pierpont - 1823 - 492 pages
...ginning on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes . •„ That slumber in its...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, 22 * 2S8 THE AMERICAN (Lew<ra 11T. Save his own dashings — yet — the...
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English Grammar: With an Improved Syntax. Part I. Comprehending at One View ...

John March Putnam - 1828 - 200 pages
...THANATOPSIS- BRYANT. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosoro. — Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods * Tear*, is a noun without a governing word ; Rule 15.— Hence, is an adverb ami qualities is understood...
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Kettell, Samuel: Specimens of American Poetry...

1829 - 436 pages
...shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings— yet— the dead are there, And millions hi those...
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The Edinburgh Literary Journal: Or, Weekly Register of Criticism ..., Volume 2

1829 - 514 pages
...shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages— all that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom....and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the contiguous woods, Where rolls the Oregnn, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead...
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The Edinburgh Literary Journal: Or, Weekly Register of Criticism ..., Volume 2

1829 - 520 pages
...momipg, and the Barcnn desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the contiguous woods, Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the...are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since (irst The flight of vcars began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone....
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Sermons, Volume 1

Cornelius Roosevelt Duffie - 1829 - 444 pages
...that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. ——Millions — since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep." From their graves a small still voice seems to convey this prophetic caution to our hearts : " So shalt...
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Specimens of American Poetry: With Critical and Biographical ..., Volume 3

Samuel Kettell - 1829 - 432 pages
...globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there, And millions in those...
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