Francis Parkman's The Oregon Trail

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H. Holt and Company, 1918 - 397 pages

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Page 156 - One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur: They'll have fleet steeds that follow,
Page 52 - Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, The seat of Desolation, void of light, Save what the glimmering of these livid flames Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend...
Page 272 - Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, — such was the process: And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders.
Page 344 - Ten of them were sheathed in steel, With belted sword, and spur on heel : They quitted not their harness bright, Neither by day, nor yet by night...
Page 306 - Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.
Page 1 - Her upper deck was covered with large wagons of a peculiar form, for the Santa Fe trade, and her hold was crammed with goods for the same destination. There were also the equipments and provisions of a party of Oregon emigrants, a band of mules and horses, piles of saddles and harness, and a multitude of nondescript articles, indispensable on the prairies. Almost hidden in this medley one might have seen a small French cart, of the sort very appropriately called a " mule-killer " beyond the frontiers,...
Page 361 - And some are in a far countree, And some all restlessly at home; But never more, oh! never, we Shall meet to revel and to roam. But those hardy days flew cheerily, And when they now fall drearily, My thoughts, like swallows, skim the...
Page 230 - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense...
Page 115 - LARS PORSENA of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.
Page 186 - They waste us — ay — like' April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away ; And fast they follow, as we go Towards the setting day, — Till they shall fill the land, and we Are driven into the western sea.

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