Transatlantic Sketches: Comprising Visits to the Most Interesting Scenes in North and South America, and the West Indies. With Notes on Negro Slavery and Canadian Emigration, Band 1

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Key and Biddle, 1833 - 378 Seiten
 

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Seite 213 - Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours ! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.
Seite 111 - tis too horrible ! The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.
Seite 313 - The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe, And drive the wedge, in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task...
Seite 26 - ... lively prospects, hills so raised here and there over the valleys, the river winding into divers branches, the plains adjoining without bush or stubble, all fair green grass, the ground of hard sand, easy to march on either for horse or foot, the deer crossing in every path, the birds towards the evening singing on every tree with a thousand several tunes, cranes and herons of white, crimson, and carnation, perching on the river's side, the air fresh, with a gentle easterly wind ; and every stone...
Seite 263 - But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
Seite 169 - It Is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord : and to sing praises unto thy name, O Most High; To show forth thy lovingkindness in the morning: and thy faithfulness every night.
Seite 131 - I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay ; The steel of the white man hath swept them away.
Seite 109 - I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.
Seite 124 - And he went forth — alone! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his way, Sick and heart-broken, and alone — to die! — For God had cursed the leper! It was noon, And...
Seite 375 - ... not already gone; and that no structure which shall not outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can prolong the memorial.

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