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James Parton, The life of Horace Greeley, Chapter 12: editor of the New Yorker. (search)
t naught o'er bade My heart leap up, like you, bright stars! Calm ministrants to God's high glory! Pure gems around His burning throne! Mute watchers o'er man's strange, sad story Of Crime and Woe through ages gone! 'Twas yours the mild and hallowing spell That lured me from ignoble gleams— Taught me where sweeter fountains swell Than ever bless the worldling's dreams. How changed was life! a waste no more, Beset by Want, and Pain, and Wrong; Earth seemed a glad and fairy shore, Vocal with Hope's inspiring song. But ye, bright sentinels of Heaven! Far glories of Night's radiant sky! Who, as ye gemmed the brow of Even, Has ever deemed Man born to die?. 'Tis faded now, that wondrous grace That once on Heaven's forehead shone; I read no more in Nature's face A soul responsive to my own. A dimness on my eye and spirit, Stern time has cast in hurrying by; Few joys my hardier years inherit, And leaden dullness rules the sky. Yet mourn not I—a stern, high duty Now nerves my arm and fire