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Burlington (New Jersey, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
would thank thee even yet! And as one who scatters flowers Where the Queen of May's sweet hours Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers, In superfluous zeal bestowing Gifts where gifts are overflowing, So I pay the debt I'm owing. To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, Sunny-hued or sober clad, Something of my own I add; Well assured that thou wilt take Even the offering which I make Kindly for the giver's sake. 1851. My Namesake. Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allinson of Burlington, New Jersey. You scarcely need my tardy thanks, Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend– A green leaf on your own Green Banks— The memory of your friend. For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides The sobered brow and lessening hair: For aught I know, the myrtled sides Of Helicon are bare. Their scallop-shells so many bring The fabled founts of song to try, They've drained, for aught I know, the spring Of Aganippe dry. Ah well!—The wreath the Muses braid Proves often Folly's cap and bell; Methinks, my<
Nantucket (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
he land And the Indian turned away From our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw, That the burthen and the curse Of the white man's cruel law Rested also upon us. Torn apart, and driven forth To our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earth Lift we still our grateful song! Grateful, that in bonds we share In Thy love which maketh free; Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee! Grateful! that where'er we toil,— By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle, Or by wild Neponset's tide,— Still, in spirit, we are near, And our evening hymns, which rise Separate and discordant here, Meet and mingle in the skies! Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast,— Redden not Thy bolts in store Through the blackness of Thy skies? For the sighing of the poor Wilt Thou not, at length, arise? Worn and wasted, oh! how long Shall thy trodden poor complain? In Thy<
Time (Pennsylvania, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
lm. 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, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies,— The Indian Summer of the heart! In secd, The Christ within confessed. In mercy or in judgment He shall turn and overturn, Till the heart shall be His temple Where all of Him shall learn. “ 1878. Inscriptions. On a sun-dial. For Dr. Henry I. Bowditch. with warning hand I mark Time's rapid flight From life's glad morning to its solemn night; Yet, through the dear God's love, I also show There's Light above me by the Shade below. 1879. On a fountain. For Dorothea L. Dix. stranger and traveller, Drink freely and best
Portsmouth (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
how her own great-uncle bore His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. Recalling, in her fitting phrase, So rich and picturesque and free, (The common unrhymed poetry Of simple life and country ways,) The story of her early days,— She made us welcome to her home; Old hearths grew wide to give us room; We stole with her a frightened look At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, The fame whereof went far and wide Through all the simple country side; We heard the hawks at twilight play, The boat-horn on Piscataqua, The loon's weird laughter far away; We fished her little trout-brook, knew What flowers in wood and meadow grew, What sunny hillsides autumn-brown She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, Saw where in sheltered cove and bay The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, And heard the wild-geese calling loud Beneath the gray November cloud. Then, haply, with a look more grave, And soberer tone, some tale she gave From painful Sewel's ancient tome, Beloved in every Quaker home, Of faith fire-wing
Neponset (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
om our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw, That the burthen and the curse Of the white man's cruel law Rested also upon us. Torn apart, and driven forth To our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earth Lift we still our grateful song! Grateful, that in bonds we share In Thy love which maketh free; Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee! Grateful! that where'er we toil,— By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle, Or by wild Neponset's tide,— Still, in spirit, we are near, And our evening hymns, which rise Separate and discordant here, Meet and mingle in the skies! Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast,— Redden not Thy bolts in store Through the blackness of Thy skies? For the sighing of the poor Wilt Thou not, at length, arise? Worn and wasted, oh! how long Shall thy trodden poor complain? In Thy name they bear the wrong, In Thy caus<
Christmas (Michigan, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
doing good. In vain shall waves of incense drift The vaulted nave around, In vain the minster turret lift Its brazen weights of sound. The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells, Thy inward altars raise; Its faith and hope Thy canticles, And its obedience praise! 1866. The meeting. The two speakers in the meeting referred sat Silent, in his accustomed place, With God's sweet peace upon his face. ‘Why sitt'st thou thus?’ his brethren cried. “It is the blessed Christmas-tide; The Christmas lights are all aglow, The sacred lilies bud and blow. Above our heads the joy-bells ring, Without the happy children sing, And all God's creatures hail the mord's exceeding grace, Release from form and time and place. I listen, from no mortal tongue, To hear the song the angels sung; And wait within myself to know The Christmas lilies bud and blow. The outward symbols disappear From him whose inward sight is clear; And small must be the choice of days To him who fills them all with pr<
Somersworth (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
r such circumstances story-telling was a necessary resource in the long winter evenings. My father when a young man had traversed the wilderness to Canada, and could tell us of his adventures with Indians and wild beasts, and of his sojourn in the French villages. My uncle was ready with his record of hunting and fishing and, it must be confessed, with stories which he at least half believed, of witchcraft and apparitions. My mother, who was born in the Indian-haunted region of Somersworth, New Hampshire, between Dover and Portsmouth, told us of the inroads of the savages, and the narrow escape of her ancestors. She described strange people who lived on the Piscataqua and Cocheco, among whom was Bantam the sorcerer. I have in my possession the wizard's conjuring book, which he solemnly opened when consulted. It is a copy of Cornelius Agrippa's Magic printed in 1651, dedicated to Dr. Robert Child, who, like Michael Scott, had learned the art of glammorie In Padua beyond the sea,
Sodom (Israel) (search for this): chapter 2
told From tower and mosque the hour of prayer. With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn From Shiraz saw the stranger part; The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born Still blooming in his hopeful heart! 1830. The Cities of the plain. “Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day! Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away! Tis the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time, And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime!” The warning was spoken—the righteous had gone, And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone; All gay was the banquet—the revel was long, With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song. Twas an evening of beauty; the air was perfume, The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom; And softly the delicate viol was heard, Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance; And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free As the plumage of birds in some tr
New England (United States) (search for this): chapter 2
race, Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave 1846. To my sister, with a Copy of the Supernaturalism of new England. The work referred to was a series of papers under this title, contributed to the Democratic Review and afterward collected into a volume, in which I noted some of the superstitions and folklore prevalent in New England. The volume has not been kept in print, but most of its contents are distributed in my Literary Recreations and Miscellanies. dear Sister! while the wise and sage Turn coldly from my playful page, And count it strange that ripened age Should stoop to boyhood's folly my spirit's eye And its faint, but earnest cry, From its dark and cold abode, Unto Thee, my Guide and God! 1837. The Familist's hymn. The Puritans of New England, even in their wilderness home, were not exempted from the sectarian contentions which agitated the mother country after the downfall of Charles the First, and
Boars Head (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
yllic ease Beneath St. Francois' hemlock-trees; Again for him the moonlight shone On Norman cap and bodiced zone; Again he heard the violin play Which led the village dance away, And mingled in its merry whirl The grandam and the laughing girl. Or, nearer home, our steps he led Where Salisbury's level marshes spread Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; Where merry mowers, hale and strong, Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along The low green prairies of the sea. We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, And round the rocky Isles of Shoals The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals; The chowder on the sand-beach made, Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. We heard the tales of witchcraft old, And dream and sign and marvel told To sleepy listeners as they lay Stretched idly on the salted hay, Adrift along the winding shores, When favoring breezes deigned to blow The square sail of the gundelow And idle lay the useless oars. Our mother, while she turned h
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