Rural Repository, Volume 9

W. B. Stoddard, 1882
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Page 8 - And has he left his birds and flowers; And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again? " And by the brook and in the glade Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh ! while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more !
Page 198 - The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute ; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
Page 198 - How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort ; At length she said, in a gentle tone,
Page 102 - tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands.
Page 37 - Rowley and his servant. The master, being forced to sell a pair of his oxen to pay his servant his wages, told his servant he could keep him no longer, not knowing how to pay him the next year. The servant answered him, he would serve him for more of his cattle.
Page 198 - Were the swelling words of a tiny stone, " Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; I am abiding, while ages flee. The pelting hail and the drizzling rain Have tried to soften me, long, in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt, Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
Page 179 - He received the honorary degree of doctor of divinity from the University of Vermont in 1839.
Page 8 - A rose's brief, bright life of joy, Such unto him was given' Go— thou must play alone, my boy— Thy brother is in heaven!
Page 102 - How beautiful will brother be, When God shall give him wings, Above this dying world to flee, And live with heavenly things.
Page 8 - OH ! call my brother back to me ! I cannot play alone ; The Summer comes with flower and bee — Where is my brother gone ? " The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track ; I care not now to chase its flight — Oh ! call my brother back ! " The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load — Oh ! call him back to me...

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