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Or talked of that mysterious love
That comes like fate to every soul, And vowed to hold our lives above,
Perchance its sorrowful control. Alas, the very vow we made,
To keep our lives from passion free, To wiser hearts well had betrayed
Some future love's intensity.
A Fleet set sail upon a summer sea:
'Tis now so long ago, I look no more to see my ships come home; But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me. Ships never bore such precious freight as these,
Please God, to any woe.
And daily I bestow
Where I may never know?
How well that youthful vow was kept,
Is written on a deathless pageVain all regrets, vain tears we've wept,
The record lives from age to age. But one who “doeth all things well,”
Who made us differ from the throng, Has it within his heart to quell
This torturing pain of thirst, ere long.
And you, whose soul is all aglow
With fire Prometheus brought from heaven, Shall in some future surely know
Joys for which high desires are given. Not always in a restless pain
Shall beat your heart, or throb your brow; Not always shall you sigh in vain
For hope's fruition, hidden now.
Through deep ravine, through burning, barren
plain, Through wild and rocky strait, Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain, Toward the sunset gate.
-Sunset at Mouth of Columbia River,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Raphael is not dead; He doth but sleep; for how can he be dead Who lives immortal in the hearts of men ? He only drank the precious wine of youth, The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintage Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of men.
Poet, I come to touch thy lance with mine;
Not as a knight who on the listed field
In token of defiance, but in sign
In English song; nor will I keep concealed,
My admiration for thy verse divine,
Who craze the brain with their delirious dance
Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart!
To thee our love and our allegiance,
— Wapentake. AGE.
Decide not rashly. The decision made
He that respects himself is safe from others; He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
I need them not. I have within myself
Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar!
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
- The Spanish Student.
Must love and joy and sorrow learn,
- Forsaken. PERSEVERANCE. The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.
The Ladder of St. Augustine.
Ye sentinels of sleep,
It is in vain ye keep Your drowsy watch before the Ivory Gate:
Though closed the portal seems,
The airy feet of dreams Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate.
Satan desires us, great and small,
- The Sifting of Peter.
Honor and blessings on his head
- Tales of a Wayside Inn.
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
Alas! to-day I would give everything
- Judas Maccabæus.
Never stoops the soaring vulture
So disasters come not singly;
O fear not in a world like this
And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.
- The Light of Stars.
Art is the child of Nature; yes,
It is a mystery of the unknown
That fascinates us; we are children still,
Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own,
And with the other, resolute of will,
- The Two Rivers.
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
There is no Death! What seems so is tran
TEARS. For there are moments in life, when the heart is so
full of emotion, That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths
like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its se
cret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
— The Courtship of Miles Standish.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,
– Tales of a Wayside Inn.
Mine is the month of Roses; yes, and mine
The month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
The foliage of the valleys and the heights; Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.
– The Poet's Calendar.
Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of
purple and scarlet, Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his gar
ments resplendent, Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his
forehead, Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and
pomegranates: Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor
beneath him Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver!
- The Goblet of Life.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wasted downward From an eagle in his flight.
– The Day is Done.