Man hath no part in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage. . . . |
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born |
Oh mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years. |
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign |
Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully |
Pure was thy life; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right. |
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness |
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. |
So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. |
So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them -- but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride. |
Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows. . . . |
Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak. |
That delicate forest flower,
With scented breath and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this great universe. |
That rolls to its appointed end. |
That rolls to its appointed end. |