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Página 49 - The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these. "The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk; no wife to grind his corn.
Página 21 - ... sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us! —...
Página 35 - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The...
Página 136 - YOU'D scarce expect one of my age To speak in public on the stage ; And if I chance to fall below Demosthenes or Cicero, Don't view me with a critic's eye, But pass my imperfections by.
Página 101 - During the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.
Página 101 - There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it : I have killed many : I have fully glutted my vengeance : for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace.
Página 21 - Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung...
Página 21 - By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 'Twas Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
Página 84 - Let, I pray thee, thy merciful kindness be for my comfort, according to thy word unto thy servant.
Página 23 - American poet, which is called simply the SONG OF STEAM. " Harness me down with your iron bands ; Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the power of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight For many a countless hour, At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power.