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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 6 0 Browse Search
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 2. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 6 0 Browse Search
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 7. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 4 0 Browse Search
Cambridge sketches (ed. Estelle M. H. Merrill) 4 0 Browse Search
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4. (ed. Frank Moore) 2 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: May 19, 1862., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Henry Walcott Boynton, Reader's History of American Literature 2 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, John Greenleaf Whittier 2 0 Browse Search
James Russell Lowell, Among my books 2 0 Browse Search
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 1. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 2 0 Browse Search
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lf, rescue or no rescue, to the lance of the unmarried, he could find, behind the chevaux de frise of clashing knitting-needles, the most genial welcome and most whole-souled hospitality. Stupid party last night-too full, criticised Wyatt, as he lounged in my room one morning. You seemed bored, old man, though I saw you with Nell H. Desperate flirt-pretty, too! But take my advice; let her alone. It don't pay to flirt. --The ten years between the captain and myself were to my credit on Time's ledger-It's all very well to stick up your pennon and ride gaily into the lists to break a lance with all comers. Society cries laissez aller! and her old dowagers shower largesse. Presto! my boy, and you find your back on the grass and your heels in the air. But I've some steadygoing cousins I want to introduce you to. Suit you exactly. Confound the boy! Where did he get that idea? But I was introduced to the steady-going cousins and to me now the Richmond of memory begins and ends
e heard you prate in Exeter Hall, Of sin and slave pollution, But now I see 'twas blarney all, You love the Institution! ” chorus.--Yankee Doodle, &c. “False words and deeds, to high and low Bring righteous retribution; And, cousin John, mayhap you know The frigate Constitution! She now is but a rotten boat, But I have half a notion To set her once again afloat, And drive you from the ocean.” chorus.--Yankee Doodle, &c. “And if, in league with her of Spain, With all the past forgotten, You dare to lift the hand of Cain In aid of old King Cotton, Be sure to guard those costly toys You call your broad dominions, For I have lots of Yankee boys Can flog your hireling minions.” chorus.--Yank Doodle, &c. “I trust in God and in the right, And in this mighty nation; And in this cause would freely fight The whole combined creation; For when, in Time's impartial gaze, The nations are reviewed all, I know the meed of honest praise Will rest on Yankee Doodle.” chorus.--Yanke
a sorrow; We'll beat a retreat from dull care once more, Though bullets may rattle to-morrow. Ho! gather more brands till the fire glows bright, Let's sit where the shadows won't find us, And dream we are back in our homes to-night, With the dear ones left behind us. No womanish tears for the peace we've lost, No grief for the struggle before us; For God and our country we'll stake the cost With the bright New-Year before us! You know when we sat by our hearths last year, And drank to old Time's retreating; We'd laugh should a vision but paint us here, Thus shouting our New-Year's greeting. We walked in the groves of our idle life, Nor dreamed of what fortune brought us, Nor fancied we'd learn 'mid war and strife, The wonderful love she taught us. Wonderful love! ay, I see you doubt, You think it scarce worth the winning; Through toil and through danger to ravel out This web of Mis-Fortune's spinning. But I — I would count in a higher scale, The soul of our country's glory; The s
re him to his sylvan home; there flowers Should o'er him smile; but chief, the oak that towers Unbent by blasts, and breaks but to the dart Of tile red bolt, from that heroic heart Should spring; for, 'mid his kindly graces soared A firm-knit will — a purpose strong that warred In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath, And only bowed its rock-clutched strength to Death. There shall he lie. When our new-kindled sun Shall dawn, his first rejoicing rays shall run In gold o'er graves like his — Fame's gold — that Time Shall brighten — and his monument sublime, Oh! seek it not in stone, but in piled hearts That loved him! The carved marble soon departs, But the heart's token, sent through ages down, Warm in its living might, mocks Time's most withering frown. Blessed is he who suffers, Benedictus qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family. and we know A solemn joy, that one whose manhood's glow Faded so soon, should die to mark how grand Above all fleeting life, to die for Nativ
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Henry Walcott Boynton, Reader's History of American Literature, Chapter 6: the Cambridge group (search)
back entry of Time. Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile? Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, On the old banks of the Nile. Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore? Look in the columns of old Advertisers,-- Married and dead by the score. Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Saturday's triumph and joy? Gone, like our friend po/das w)ku\s Achilles, Homer's ferocious old boy. Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty river Leave our young blossoms to die, Let him roll smooth in his current forever, Till the last pebble is dry. I had read Noctes Ambrosiance of Blackwood's magazine, with Christopher North and all the rest of it, but now I felt that I too had at last been admitted to the nights and suppers of the gods. Holmes's singularly boyish appearance was at first against his success in the practice of medicine, and he probably had no very great liking for the incessant duties of the gen
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations, Heirs of time. (search)
collective de tous ou la souverainete du peuple, également inalienable. Abbe de la Mennais, Le Livre du Peuple (1837). From street and square, from hill and glen Of this vast world beyond my door, I hear the tread of marching men, The patient armies of the poor. The halo of the city's lamps Hangs, a vast torchlight, in the air; I watch it through the evening damps: The masters of the world are there. Not ermine-clad or clothed in state, Their title-deeds not yet made plain; But waking early, toiling late, The heirs of all the earth remain. Some day, by laws as fixed and fair As guide the planets in their sweep, The children of each outcast heir The harvest-fruits of time shall reap. The peasant brain shall yet be wise, The untamed pulse grow calm and still; The blind shall see, the lowly rise, And work in peace Time's wondrous will. Some day, without a trumpet's call, This news will o'er the world be blown: “The heritage comes back to all! The myriad monarchs take their own
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, John Greenleaf Whittier, Chapter 11: early loves and love poetry (search)
's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace, Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, The schoolboy's humble name has flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known. And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see, Lingering, even yet, thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Nor yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust the path of flowers.
Cambridge sketches (ed. Estelle M. H. Merrill), chapter 12 (search)
ched by innovating hands; Nor has Art stinted Nature,--here she lies In ancient ampleness to bless the eyes. Beyond are spread the open meadow-lands That stretch away to catch the river's smile. From massive clumps of lofty lilac trees Pours forth the searching fragrance of the spring, Greeting the sense, while yet unseen the source; And when the summer's glow hath spent its force, And birds no more in elms and lindens sing, Millions of winy leaves inflame the breeze. And winter holds here an unwonted sway; The towering trees with honors long since dead, And charged with snows, still leave the fancy warm To feel that Time's or Nature's chilling storm By Fame eternal shall be buffeted, Nor vital greatness suffer cold decay. But let the pilgrim come what time he will, Here is evoked Thought's majesty of mood; Here she moves on with slow, imperial gait, Since two such Presences upon her wait. Lo! Past and Present mix,--a mighty flood Beside whose stately flow the lips grow still.
Cambridge sketches (ed. Estelle M. H. Merrill), The public Library. (search)
The public Library. Remembering, A. L. H. Charlotte Fiske Bates. A splendid structure! Let therein be set Some tribute to its dead librarian: A marble honor, from which she shall look, Who — Fate and Duty having strangely met- Fell from Time's shelf, a shattered human book, To find her immortality begun. The line of light. Miss Almira L. Hayward. (Taken from her Journal.) We smoothly sailed o'er a steel-blue sea One silent summer night, And saw on the far horizon's bound A silver line of light. Behind the clouds the moon had hid But there was shining still; Said one, “Behold a lesson taught For him to read who will.” When clouds of grief or doubt have shut The face of God from sight, Remember He is constant still Look for His line of light. Mid-Atlantic, Friday night, June 22, 18
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Milton. (search)
at Mr. Masson, with the diabolical art of a practised serial writer, leaves us while he goes into an exhaustive account of the Westminster Assembly and the political and religious notions of the Massachusetts Puritans. One could not help thinking, after having got Milton fairly through college, that he was never more mistaken in his life than when he wrote, How soon hath Time, that subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! Or is it Mr. Masson who has scotched Time's wheels? It is plain from the Preface to the second volume that Mr. Masson himself has an uneasy consciousness that something is wrong, and that Milton ought somehow to be more than a mere incident of his own biography. He tells us that, whatever may be thought by a hasty person looking in on the subject from the outside, no one can study the life of Milton as it ought to be studied without being obliged to study extensively and intimately the contemporary history of England, and even i
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