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" Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 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... "
School Reading by Grades: Eighth Year - Page 39
by James Baldwin - 1897 - 240 pages
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Specimens of American Poetry: With Critical and Biographical ..., Volume 3

Samuel Kettell - 1829 - 432 pages
...of heaven, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread Are shining on the sad abodes of death, The 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...
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Studies in Poetry: Embracing Notices of the Lives and Writings of the Best ...

George Barrell Cheever - 1830 - 518 pages
...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 That slumber...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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English Grammar, with an Improved Syntax

J. M. Putnam - 1831 - 174 pages
...pierce, Or loose thyself in the contmuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save Iiis own dashings, — yet the dead are there, And millions...in those solitudes, since first The flight of years bega*u, hare laid them down In their last sleep ; the dead reign there alone. So shalt them rest—...
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The Foreign Quarterly Review, Volume 5; Volume 10

1832 - 604 pages
...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 That slumber...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began,...
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The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song: Selected from English and American ...

Mme. Charlotte Fiske (Bates) Rogé - 1832 - 1022 pages
...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 That slumber In its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and...
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The Metropolitan, Volume 3

1832 - 606 pages
...lapse of ages. All that tread The glohe are hut a handful to the trihes That slumher in its hosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods W here rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings ; yet the dead are there, And millious...
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The Museum of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, Volume 21

Robert Walsh, Eliakim Littell, John Jay Smith - 1832 - 648 pages
...host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through ihe still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the winfs Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls...
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The American Quarterly Observer, Volume 1

Bela Bates Edwards - 1833 - 890 pages
...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 That slumber...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...
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Selections from the American Poets: With Some Introductory Remarks

1834 - 404 pages
...heaven, Are shining on the ad 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. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barean desert pieree ; Or lose thyself in the eontinuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no...
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The Monthly Repository and Library of Entertaining Knowledge, Volume 4

1834 - 440 pages
...of heaven, Through the still lapse of apes. All that tread Are shining on the sad abodes of death, The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce, Where rolls the Orogon, and hears...
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