Vermont School Journal: Devoted to the Educational Interests of Vermont, Volum 3

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Side 198 - Woe unto you, lawyers! for ye have taken away the key of knowledge : ye entered not in yourselves, and them that were entering in ye hindered.
Side 169 - Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For, with its sunny-edged shadows once more, Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore. Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Side 213 - There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty.
Side 223 - We forget that old proverb, that an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure, — that that is the truest wisdom which advises the overcoming of the beginnings of evil.
Side 283 - Dig channels for the streams of Love, Where they may broadly run ; And Love has overflowing streams To fill them every one.
Side 169 - Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart, as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; — Rock me to sleep, mother, —rock me to sleep ! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
Side 198 - But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in. Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.
Side 5 - Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him (xxii.
Side 169 - I am so weary of toil and of tears — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain — Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Side 47 - His is a progress not to be compared with anything like a march ; but it leads to a far more brilliant triumph, and to laurels more imperishable than the destroyer of his species, the scourge of the world, ever won.

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