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Página 312 - Near this spot Are deposited the Remains of one Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, 'Courage without Ferocity, And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery If inscribed over human ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a Dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.
Página 314 - But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone...
Página 134 - It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, — Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — It is the cause.
Página 245 - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
Página 315 - He knew his lord ; he knew, and strove to meet ; In vain he strove to crawl and kiss his feet ; Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes, Salute his master, and confess his joys.
Página 284 - I see the right, and I approve it too ; Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.
Página 314 - For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And, oh, was it meet that — no requiem...
Página 56 - YE field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old. When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight. And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.
Página 315 - Thus, near the gates conferring as they drew, Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew; He, not unconscious of the voice and tread, Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head...
Página 314 - mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather Till the mountain- winds wasted the teuantless clay.

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