When from their midst a sage and seer withdrew
To fitter audience, where the great dead are
In God’s republic of the heart and mind,
Leaving no purer, nobler soul behind.
Similar Posts
From the hills of home forth looking, far beneath the tent-like span
Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tide glimmering down,And the white-walled hamlet children of its ancient fishing town.Long has passed the summer morning, and its memory waxes old,When along yon breezy headlands with a pleasant friend I strolled.Ah! the autumn sun is shining, and the ocean wind blows cool,And the golden-rod and…
AN AUTOGRAPH.
None fairer saw in John Ward’s pilgrim flock,Proof that upon their century-rooted stockThe English roses bloom as fresh as ever.Take the warm welcome of new friends with thee,And listening to thy home’s familiar chimeDream that thou hearest, with it keeping time,The bells on Merrimac sound across the sea.Think of our thrushes, when the lark sings…
We saw the slow tides go and come,
The gray rocks touched with tender bloomBeneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.We saw in richer sunsets lostThe sombre pomp of showery noons;And signalled spectral sails that crossedThe weird, low light of rising moons.On stormy eves from cliff and headWe saw the white spray tossed and spurned;While over all, in gold and red,Its face of fire…
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS.
And in its common forms discernA beauty and a harmonyThe many never learn!Kindred in soul of him who foundIn simple flower and leaf and stoneThe impulse of the sweetest laysOur Saxon tongue has known,–Accept this record of a lifeAs sweet and pure, as calm and good,As a long day of blandest JuneIn green field and…
MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760.
blossoms grew;Little of human sorrow the buds and the robinsknew!Sick, in an alien household, the poor Frenchneutral lay;Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the Aprilday,Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider’swarp and woof,On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribsof roof,The bedquilt’s faded patchwork, the teacups on thestand,The wheel with flaxen…
O ARY SCHEFFER! when beneath thine eye,
Grew the sweet picture of the dear Lord’s love,No dream hadst thou that Christian hands would tearTherefrom the token of His equal care,And make thy symbol of His truth a lie!The poor, dumb slave whose shackles fall awayIn His compassionate gaze, grubbed smoothly out,To mar no more the exercise devoutOf sleek oppression kneeling down to…