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owers, and drift Their perfume on the air, Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift, Making their lives a prayer! 1850. The hill-top. the burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed risih! human kindness, human love,— To few who seek denied; Too late we learn to prize above The whole round world beside! 1850. Elliott. Ebenezer Elliott was to the artisans of England what Burns was to the peasantry of Scotland. His Corn-la part or lot in these we claim; But, o'er the sounding wave, A common right to Elliott's name, A freehold in his grave! 1850. Ichabod. This poem was the outcome of the surprise and grief and forecast of evil consequences which I felt on rean is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame! 1850. The lost Occasion. some die too late and some too soon, At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight
orgotten be the stain removed, Her righted record shows it not! The lifted sword above her shield With jealous care shall guard his fame; The pine-tree on her ancient field To all the winds shall speak his name. The marble image of her son Her loving hands shall yearly crown, And from her pictured Pantheon His grand, majestic face look down. O State so passing rich before, Who now shall doubt thy highest claim? The world that counts thy jewels o'er Shall longest pause at Sumner's name! 1874. Thiers. I. Fate summoned, in gray-bearded age, to act A history stranger than his written fact, Him, who portrayed the splendor and the gloom Of that great hour when throne and altar fell With long death-groan which still is audible. He, when around the walls of Paris rung The Prussian bugle like the blast of doom, And every ill which follows unblest war Maddened all France from Finistere to Var, The weight of fourscore from his shoulders flung, And guided Freedom in the path he saw L
nd's royal farewells, And honors fitly paid, Come back, dear Russell Lowell, To Elmwood's waiting shade! Come home with all the garlands That crown of right thy head. I speak for comrades living, I speak for comrades dead! Amesbury, 6th mo., 1885. An Artist of the beautiful. George fuller. haunted Of Beauty, like the marvellous youth Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair Her shapes took color in thy homestead air! How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth! Magician! who frothy lesson was not given in vain. Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin; Art's place is sacred: nothing foul therein May crawl or tread with bestial feet profane. If rightly choosing is the painter's test, Thy choice, O master, ever was the best. 1885. Mulford. Author of The Nation and The Republic of God. unnoted as the setting of a star He passed; and sect and party scarcely knew When from their midst a sage and seer with-drew To fitter audience, where the great dead are In God's rep
n slope whose ghostly dead, Unmindful of the gray exorcist's ban, Walk, unappeased, the chambered Vatican, And draw the curtains of Napoleon's bed! God's providence is not blind, but, full of eyes, It searches all the refuges of lies; And in His time and way, the accursed things Before whose evil feet thy battle-gage Has clashed defiance from hot youth to age Shall perish. All men shall be priests and kings, One royal brotherhood, one church made free By love, which is the law of liberty! 1869. To Lydia Maria child, On Reading her Poem in the standard. Mrs. Child wrote her lines, beginning, Again the trees are clothed in vernal green, May 24, 1859, on the first anniversary of Ellis Gray Loring's death, but did not publish them for some years afterward, when I first read them, or I could not have made the reference which I did to the extinction of slavery. the sweet spring day is glad with music, But through it sounds a sadder strain; The worthiest of our narrowing circle S
swells, Once more the flag is half-way hung, And yet again the mournful bells In all thy steeple-towers are rung. And I, obedient to thy will, Have come a simple wreath to lay, Superfluous, on a grave that still Is sweet with all the flowers of May. I take, with awe, the task assigned; It may be that my friend might miss, In his new sphere of heart and mind, Some token from my hand in this. By many a tender memory moved, Along the past my thought I send; The record of the cause he loved Is is only ours! Within the Gate. L. M. C. I have more fully expressed my admiration and regard for Lydia Maria Child in the biographical introduction which I wrote for the volume of Letters, published after her death. we sat together, last May-day, and talked Of the dear friends who walked Beside us, sharers of the hopes and fears Of five and forty years, Since first we met in Freedom's hope forlorn, And heard her battle-horn Sound through the valleys of the sleeping North, Calling he
gh if there alone be love, And mortal need can ne'er outgrow What it is waiting to bestow! O white soul! from that far-off shore Float some sweet song the waters o'er, Our faith confirm, our fears dispel, With the old voice we loved so well! 1871. How Mary Grew. These lines were in answer to an invitation to hear a lecture of Mary Grew, of Philadelphia, before the Boston Radical Club. The reference in the last stanza is to an essay on Sappho by T. W. Higginson, read at the club ther her graceful hostess tell The silver-voiced oracle Who lately through her parlors spoke As through Dodona's sacred oak, A wiser truth than any told By Sappho's lips of ruddy gold,— The way to make the world anew, Is just to grow—as Mary Grew! 1871. Sumner. I am not one who has disgraced beauty of sentiment by deformity of conduct, or the maxims of a freeman by the actions of a slave; but, by the grace of God, I have kept my life unsullied. Milton's Defence of the people of England.
l are ringing; Beneath its smoky veil, Hard by, the city of his love is swinging Its clamorous iron flail. But round his grave are quietude and beauty, And the sweet heaven above,— The fitting symbols of a life of duty Transfigured into love! 1859. Brown of Ossawatomie. John brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: “I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put uil! So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love! 1859. Naples. Inscribed to Robert C. Waterston, of Boston. Helen Waterston died at Naples in her eighteenth year, and lies buried in the Protestant cemetery there. The stone over her grave bears the lines, Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
nd its time too short For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport; And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought! 1843. Chalkley Hall. Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., was the residence of Thomas Chalkley, an eminent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, preseve, Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love Like brother pilgrims turn. But here a deeper and serener charm To all is given; And blessed memories of the faithful dead O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed The holy hues of Heaven! 1843. Gone. another hand is beckoning us, Another call is given; And glows once more with Angel-steps The path which reaches Heaven. Our young and gentle friend, whose smile Made brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn time Has left us wi
arnest, and its time too short For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport; And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought! 1843. Chalkley Hall. Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., was the residence of Thomas Chalkley, an eminent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow-men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around the ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city. I have referred to my youth
eeders of the forge's flame, Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, Repeat his honored name. And thus the influence of that hour Of converse on Rhode Island's strand Lives in the calm, resistless power Which moves our fatherland. God blesses still the generous thought, And still the fitting word He speeds And Truth, at His requiring taught, He quickens into deeds. Where is the victory of the grave? What dust upon the spirit lies? God keeps the sacred life he gave,— The prophet never dies! 1844. To my friend on the death of his Sister. Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President of the British Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th month, 1845. She was the colleague, counsellor, and ever-ready helpmate of her brother in all his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot says of her: Never, perhaps, were the active and passive virtues of the human character more harmoniously and beautifully blended than in this excellent woman. thin
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