Bøger af John Witt Randall

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Poems of Nature and Life is an unchanged, high-quality reprint of the original edition of 1899.Hansebooks is editor of the literature on different topic areas such as research and science, travel and expeditions, cooking and nutrition, medicine, and other genres. As a publisher we focus on the preservation of historical literature. Many works of historical writers and scientists are available today as antiques only. Hansebooks newly publishes these books and contributes to the preservation of literature which has become rare and historical knowledge for the future.

Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: THE DYING VISION OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. Come, pierce this bosom, welcome death! No enemy thou art; Thou stiflest but the hated breath Of one, whose broken heart No refuge finds but in despair; Abhorred, detested, every where. Where'er I go, men frown on me; I walk like Cain on earth; All shudder when my face they see; Even in the halls of mirth, At sight of me, the voices gay In secret whispers die away. When on some gala day I hear Men cry, God save the king! The very mob, if I come near, Point at the hated thing, Shrink at my vile name's very sound, And empty space straight girds me round. O that in hot pursuit close pressed, I might but make my stand, Bare to the stroke a warrior's breast, And lift a warrior's hand, And, bravely fighting with my foes, Hail the swift shot that brought repose! But no ! I must not feel man's wrath; My fate is more forlorn; Each hastes in horror from my path, Or stares in silent scorn; And if a soldier meet my glance, He turns his back as I advance. If to my thoughts for peace I turn, Still peace and I must part; A hungry, never-dying worm Is gnawing at my heart; And conscience' self proclaims my ban, Forever whispering, Thou'rt the man. When quiet night outspreads her wings, I blush beneath the moon; Refreshing morn no solace brings, Nor the bright blaze of noon. The very sun, as if in wrath, Frowns like a shadow on my path.Scarce do I deem, when I am dead I shall escape despair; If in the grave I make my bed, Can there be peace even there, For one, with whom the good, the just, Deign not to mingle, even in dust ? Were there but hope to die unknown, That when the sexton's hand Placed o'er my grave a nameless stone, I, in the stranger's l...