The Third Reader: Consisting of Interesting and Progressive Lessons

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Sanborn, Carter and Company, 1852 - 288 strani
 

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Stran 85 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
Stran 85 - How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas!
Stran 42 - Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me, — it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards year after year, as I do.
Stran 85 - Religion! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford.
Stran 84 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Stran 284 - How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
Stran 268 - A stranger animal," cries one, " Sure never lived beneath the sun; A lizard's body, lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue; Its foot with triple claw disjoined; And what a length of tail behind ! How slow its pace, and then its hue; — Who ever saw so fine a blue !"
Stran 195 - What is that, Mother? The dove, my son ! And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out, from her gentle breast, Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return : Ever, my son, be thou, like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother ? The eagle, boy!
Stran 285 - THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the...

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