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Marblehead (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
of citizens of Boston having for its object the preservation of the Old South Church famous in Colonial and Revolutionary history. I. through the streets of Marblehead Fast the red-winged terror sped; Blasting, withering, on it came, With its hundred tongues of flame, Where St. Michael's on its way Stood like chained Andromch that, after sea-moss grew Over walls no longer new, Counted generations five, Four entombed and one alive; Heard the martial thousand tread Battleward from Marblehead; Saw within the rock-walled bay Treville's lilied pennons play, And the fisher's dory met By the barge of Lafayette, Telling good news in advance Of the comi this very hour Perilled like St. Michael's tower, Held not in the clasp of flame, But by mammon's grasping claim. Shall it be of Boston said She is shamed by Marblehead? City of our pride! as there, Hast thou none to do and dare? Life was risked for Michael's shrine; Shall not wealth be staked for thine? Woe to thee, when m
Newtonville (Mississippi, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
st, The pride of every zone, The fairest, rarest, and the best May all be made our own. Its earliest shrines the young world sought In hill-groves and in bowers, The fittest offerings thither brought Were Thy own fruits and flowers. And still with reverent hands we cull Thy gifts each year renewed; The good is always beautiful, The beautiful is good. A greeting. Read at Harriet Beecher Stowe's seventieth anniversary, June 14, 1882, at a garden party at ex-Governor Claflin's in Newtonville, Mass. thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours! To her who, in our evil time, Dragged into light the nation's crime With strength beyond the strength of men, And, mightier than their swords, her pen! To her who world-wide entrance gave To the log-cabin of the slave; Made all his wrongs and sorrows known, And all earth's languages his own,— North, South, and East and West, made all The common air electrical, Until the
Norumbega (Maine, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
all at Wellesley College, named in honor of Eben Norton Horsford, who has been one of the most munificent patrons of that noble institution, and who had just published an essay claiming the discovery of the site of the somewhat mythical city of Norumbega, was opened with appropriate ceremonies, in April, 1886. The following sonnet was written for the occasion, and was read by President Alice E. Freeman, to whom it was addressed. not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires Of the sought City rosce domes in view, And, lo! at last its mystery is made known— Its only dwellers maidens fair and young, Its Princess such as England's Laureate sung; And safe from capture, save by love alone, It lends its beauty to the lake's green shore, And Norumbega is a myth no more. The Bartholdi Statue. 1886. the land, that, from the rule of kings, In freeing us, itself made free, Our Old World Sister, to us brings Her sculptured Dream of Liberty: Unlike the shapes on Egypt's sands Uplifted by the
Sorrento (Ohio, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
warm heart of the man Beneath the creed-bound Puritan, And taught the kinship of the love Of man below and God above; To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks; Whose fireside stories, grave or gay, In quaint Sam Lawson's vagrant way, With old New England's flavor rife, Waifs from her rude idyllic life, Are racy as the legends old By Chaucer or Boccaccio told; To her who keeps, through change of place And time, her native strength and grace, Alike where warm Sorrento smiles, Or where, by birchen-shaded isles, Whose summer winds have shivered o'er The icy drift of Labrador, She lifts to light the priceless Pearl Of Harpswell's angel-beckoned girl! To her at threescore years and ten Be tributes of the tongue and pen; Be honor, praise, and heart-thanks given, The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven! Ah, dearer than the praise that stirs The air to-day, our love is hers! She needs no guaranty of fame Whose own is linked with Freedom's name. Long ages aft
Jamaica Plain (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
love follows her in whom All graces and sweet charities unite, The old Greek beauty set in holier light; And her for whom New England's byways bloom, Who walks among us welcome as the Spring, Calling up blossoms where her light feet stray. God keep you both, make beautiful your way, Comfort, console, and bless; and safely bring, Ere yet I make upon a vaster sea The unreturning voyage, my friends to me. 1882. Winter roses. In reply to a flower gift from Mrs. Putnam's school at Jamaica Plain. my garden roses long ago Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks; Their pale, fair sisters smile no more Upon the sweet-brier stalks. Gone with the flower-time of my life, Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride, And Nature's winter and my own Stand, flowerless, side by side. So might I yesterday have sung; To-day, in bleak December's noon, Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues, The rosy wealth of June! Bless the young hands that culled the gift, And bless the hearts that pro
California (California, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
June like this must come, Unseen of us these laurels clothe The river-banks with bloom; And these green paths must soon be trod By other feet than ours, Full long may annual pilgrims come To keep the Feast of Flowers; The matron be a girl once more, The bearded man a boy, And we, in heaven's eternal June, Be glad for earthly joy! 1876. Hymn For the Opening of Thomas Starr King's House of Worship, 1864. The poetic and patriotic preacher, who had won fame in the East, went to California in 1860 and became a power on the Pacific coast. It was not long after the opening of the house of worship built for him that he died. amidst these glorious works of Thine, The solemn minarets of the pine, And awful Shasta's icy shrine,— Where swell Thy hymns from wave and gale, And organ-thunders never fail, Behind the cataract's silver veil,— Our puny walls to Thee we raise, Our poor reed-music sounds Thy praise: Forgive, O Lord, our childish ways! For, kneeling on these altar-stair
Kitchener (Canada) (search for this): chapter 2
river: Its pines above, its waves below, The west-wind down it blowing, As fair as when the young Brissot Beheld it seaward flowing,— And bore its memory o'er the deep, To soothe a martyr's sadness, And fresco, in his troubled sleep, His prison-walls with gladness. We know the world is rich with streams Renowned in song and story, Whose music murmurs through our dreams Of human love and glory: We know that Arno's banks are fair, And Rhine has castled shadows, And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr Go singing down their meadows. But while, unpictured and unsung By painter or by poet, Our river waits the tuneful tongue And cunning hand to show it,— We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine Awakes to our caressing. No fickle sun-god holds the flocks That graze its shores in keeping; No icy kiss of Dian mocks The youth beside it sleeping: Our Christian river loveth most The beautiful and human; The heathen streams of Naiads boast, But
Providence, R. I. (Rhode Island, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
hern ices cold. And let these altars, wreathed with flowers And piled with fruits, awake again Thanksgivings for the golden hours, The early and the latter rain! 1859. The Quaker Alumni. Read at the Friends' School Anniversary, Providence, R. I., 6th mo., 1860. from the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine, Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again; And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool, Play over the old game of going to school. All your strifes loses; The wilding sweetbrier of his prayers Is crowned with cultured roses. Once more the Island State repeats The lesson that he taught her, And binds his pearl of charity Upon her brown-locked daughter. Is't fancy that he watches still His Providence plantations? That still the careful Founder takes A part on these occasions? Methinks I see that reverend form, Which all of us so well know: He rises up to speak; he jogs The presidential elbow. ‘Good friends,’ he says, “you reap a field I <
Sinai (Mississippi, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
entombed and one alive; Heard the martial thousand tread Battleward from Marblehead; Saw within the rock-walled bay Treville's lilied pennons play, And the fisher's dory met By the barge of Lafayette, Telling good news in advance Of the coming fleet of France! Church to reverend memories dear, Quaint in desk and chandelier; Bell, whose century-rusted tongue Burials tolled and bridals rung; Loft, whose tiny organ kept Keys that Snetzler's hand had swept; Altar, o'er whose tablet old Sinai's law its thunders rolled! Suddenly the sharp cry came: ‘Look! St. Michael's is aflame!’ Round the low tower wall the fire Snake-like wound its coil of ire. Sacred in its gray respect From the jealousies of sect, ‘Save it,’ seemed the thought of all, ‘Save it, though our roof-trees fall!’ Up the tower the young men sprung; One, the bravest, outward swung By the rope, whose kindling strands Smoked beneath the holder's hands, Smiting down with strokes of power Burning fragments fr
Sacramento City (Missouri, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
— We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine Awakes to our caressing. No fickle sun-god holds the flocks That graze its shores in keeping; No icy kiss of Dian mocks The youth beside it sleeping: Our Christian river loveth most The beautiful and human; The heathen streams of Naiads boast, But ours of man and woman. The miner in his cabin hears The ripple we are hearing; It whispers soft to homesick ears Around the settler's clearing: In Sacramento's vales of corn, Or Santee's bloom of cotton, Our river by its valley-born Was never yet forgotten. The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills The summer air with clangor; The war-storm shakes the solid hills Beneath its tread of anger; Young eyes that last year smiled in ours Now point the rifle's barrel, And hands then stained with fruits and flowers Bear redder stains of quarrel. But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on, And rivers still keep flowing, The dear God still his rain and sun
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