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Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 3 (search)
III. Groton and Providence. Letters and journals. What hath not man sought out and found, But his dear God? Who yet his glorious love Embosoms in us, mellowing the ground With showers, and frosts, with love and awe. Herbert. No one need pride himself upon Genius, for it is the free-gift of God; but of honest Industry and true devotion to his destiny any man may well be proud; indeed, this thorough integrity of purpose is itself the Divine Idea in its most common form, and no really honest mind is without communion with God Fichte. God did anoint thee with his odorous oil, To wrestle, not to reign; and he assigns All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, For younger fellow-workers of the soil To wear for amulets. So others shall Take patience, labor, to their hearts and hands, From thy hands, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer, And God's grace fructify through thee to all. Elizabeth B. Barrett. While I was restless, nothing satisfied, Distrustful, most perple
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 4 (search)
nd novels, and was a dear student of Dante and Petrarca, and knew German books more cordially than any other person, she was little read in Shakspeare; and I believe I had the pleasure of making her acquainted with Chaucer, with Ben Jonson, with Herbert, Chapman, Ford, Beaumont and Fletcher, with Bacon, and Sir Thomas Browne. I was seven years her senior, and had the habit of idle reading in old English books, and, though not much versed, yet quite enough to give me the right to lead her. She o me, and bids me call unhappiness happy. to——. March, 1842.—My inward life has been more rich and deep, and of more calm and musical flow than ever before. It seems to me that Heaven, whose course has ever been to cross-bias me, as Herbert said, is no niggard in its compensations. I have indeed been forced to take up old burdens, from which I thought I had learned what they could teach; the pen has been snatched from my hand just as I most longed to use it; I have been forced to <
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), VI. Jamaica Plain. (search)
s young; poets are; but the pilgrim does not lay aside his belt of steel, nor the merchant his pack, to worship the flowers on the fountain's brink. I feel, like Herbert, the weight of business to be done, but the bird-like particle would skim and sing at these sweet places. It seems strange to leave them; and that we do so, whilveral years, which I have passed in the same way. Sunday is to me priceless as a day of peace and solitary reflection. To all who will, it may be true. that, as Herbert says:— Sundays the pillars are On which Heaven's palace arched lies; The other days fill up the space And hollow room with vanities; and yet in no wise vanitst flow till in every vein its place is supplied by the Divine ichor. And she reiterates: The method of Providence with me is evidently that of cross-biassing, as Herbert hath it. In a word, to her own conscience and to intimate friends she avowed, without reserve, that there was in her much rude matter that needed to be spiritual