The Penny satirist and London pioneer [afterw.] The London pioneer [afterw.] The London literary pioneer [afterw.] Literary pioneer, Volume 3

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Page 124 - Oh, the grave! The grave! It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
Page 37 - I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man it has often been otherwise.
Page 124 - Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited ; every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition!
Page 124 - Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it as a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom 'from her arms, though every recollection is a pang?
Page 124 - ... who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ! Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? No ; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song ; there is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.
Page 124 - If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth...
Page 61 - ... king, and keeps order, and exercises many virtues, and promotes the interest of mankind, and is that state of good things to which God hath designed the present constitution of the world.
Page 124 - When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, All the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May. Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May, Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows, Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Glide the streams away. Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Throbbing for the May. Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May, Spring goes by with wasted warnings...
Page 237 - Our life is but a Winter's day — Some only breakfast and away. Others to dinner stay and are full fed, The oldest man but sups, and goes to bed. Large is his debt who lingers out the day : Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.
Page 239 - Then,' said the rose, with deepened glow, ' On me another grace bestow :' The spirit paused, in silent thought, What grace was there that flower...

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