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now Which the sun drank up long moons ago! Under the falls of Tacconock, The wolves are eating the Norridgewock; Castine with his wives lies closely hid Like a fox in the woods of Pemaquid! On Sawga's banks the man of war Sits in his wigwam like a squaw; Squando has fled, and Mogg Megone, Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, Lies stiff and stark and cold as a stone.” Fearfully over the Jesuit's face, Of a thousand thoughts, trace after trace, Like swift cloud-shadows, each other chase. One instant, his fingers grasp his knife, For a last vain struggle for cherished life,— The next, he hurls the blade away, And kneels at his altar's foot to pray; Over his beads his fingers stray, And he kisses the cross, and calls aloud On the Virgin and her Son; For terrible thoughts his memory crowd Of evil seen and done, Of scalps brought home by his savage flock From Casco and Sawga and Sagadahock In the Church's service won. No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, As scowling on the priest he loo
savages, whose attention is easily distracted, I have composed prayers, calculated to inspire them with just sentiments of the august sacrifice of our altars: they chant, or at least recite them aloud, during mass. Besides preaching to them on Sundays and saints' days, I seldom let a working-day pass without making a concise exhortation, for the purpose of inspiring them with horror at those vices to which they are most addicted, or to confirm them in the practice of some particular virtue.’— savages, whose attention is easily distracted, I have composed prayers, calculated to inspire them with just sentiments of the august sacrifice of our altars: they chant, or at least recite them aloud, during mass. Besides preaching to them on Sundays and saints' days, I seldom let a working-day pass without making a concise exhortation, for the purpose of inspiring them with horror at those vices to which they are most addicted, or to confirm them in the practice of some particular virtue.— <
lver-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. O Mother State! the winds of March Blew chill o'er Auburn's Field of God, Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch Of sky, thy mourning children trod. And now, with all thy woods in leaf, Thy fields in flower, beside thy dead Thou sittest, in thy robes of grief, A Rachel yet uncomforted! And once again the organ 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 swee
ory of the autumn leaves. And, if the flowery meed of song To other bards may well belong, Be his, who from the farm-field spoke A word for Freedom when her need Was not of dulcimer and reed. This Isthmian wreath of pine and oak. The wind of March. up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing It is the wind of March. Between the passing and the coming season, This stormy interlude Gives to our winter-wearied heMarch. Between the passing and the coming season, This stormy interlude Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason For trustful gratitude. Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning Of light and warmth to come, The longed — for joy of Nature's Easter morning, The earth arisen in bloom! In the loud tumult winter's strength is breaking; I listen to the sound, As to a voice of resurrection, waking To life the dead, cold ground. Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearken Of rivulets on their way; I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darken With the fresh leaves of May. This roar of
Two Elizabeths. Requital. The Wood Giant. The Reunion. Adjustment. An Artist of the Beautiful. A Welcome to Lowell. 1886How the Robin came. Banished from Massachusetts. The Homestead. Revelation. The Bartholdi Statue. Norumbega Hall. Mulford. To a Cape Ann Schooner. Samuel J. Tilden. A Day's Journey. 1887On the Big Horn. A Legacy. 1888The Brown Dwarf of Riigen. Lydia H. Sigourney, Inscription on Tablet. One of the Signers. The Christmas of 1888. 1889The Vow of Washington. O. W. Holmes on his Eightieth Birthday. 1890R. S. S., At Deer Island on the Merrimac. Burning Drift-Wood. The Captain's Well. Haverhill. To G. G. Milton, on Memorial Window. The Last Eve of Summer. To E. C. S. 1891James Russell Lowell. Preston Powers, Inscription for Bass-Relief. The Birthday Wreath. Between the Gates. 1892An Outdoor Reception. The Wind of March. To Oliver Wendell Holmes. [Date unknown.] The Home-Coming of the Bride. Mrs. Choate's House-Warming. Fragment.
e world before, III. 238. O Holy Father! just and true, III. 54. Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come, III. 231. Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing, IV. 110. Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn, IV. 138. O Lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare, i. 17. Old friend, kind friend! lightly down, IV. 73. Olor Iscanus queries: Why should we, III. 216. O lonely bay of Trinity, IV. 269. O Mother Earth! upon thy lap, III. 131. O Mother State! the winds of March, IV. 127. Once more, dear friends, you meet beneath, III. 241. Once more, O all-adjusting Death, IV. 155. Once more, O Mountains of the North, unveil, II. 55. Once more on yonder laurelled height, IV. 175. One day, along the electric wire, IV. 84. One hymn more, O my lyre, II. 200. One morning of the first sad Fall. IV. 158. One Sabbath day my friend and I, i. 290. O Norah, lay your basket down, i. 120. On page of thine I cannot trace, II. 101. On the isle o
, The, IV. 286. Voyage of the Jettie, II. 170. Waiting, The, II. 132. Watchers, The, III. 223. Wedding Veil, The, IV. 331. Welcome to Lowell, A, IV. 152. Well of Loch Maree, The, i. 124. What of the Day, III. 191. What State Street said to South Carolina, IV. 399. What the Birds said, III. 248. What the Traveller said at Sunset, II. 334. What the Voice said, II. 213. Wheeler, Daniel, IV. 48. Wife of Manoah to her Husband, The, II. 217. Wilson, IV. 149. Wind of March, The, IV. 31L Winter Roses, IV. 219. Wishing Bridge, The, II 398. Wish of To-Day, The, III. 233. Witch of Wenham, The, i. 360. Within the Gate, IV. 143. Woman, A, II. 294. Wood Giant, The, II. 91. Word, The, II. 326. Word for the Hour, A, III 218. Wordsworth, IV. 66. World's Convention, The, III. 72. Worship, II. 227. Worship of Nature, The, IV. 282. Wreck of Rivermouth, The, IV. 235. Yankee Girl, The, III. 30. Yorktown, III. 128.
March 7th (search for this): chapter 1
dreamer's sigh For him whose words were bread; The Runic rhyme and spell whereby The foodless poor were fed! Pile up the tombs of rank and pride, O England, as thou wilt! With pomp to nameless worth denied, Emblazon titled guilt! No 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 reading the seventh of March speech of Daniel Webster in support of the compromise, and the Fugitive Slave Law. No partisan or personal enmity dictated it. On the contrary my admiration of the splendid personality and intellectual power of the great Senator was never stronger than when I laid down his speech, and, in one of the saddest moments of my life, penned my protest. I saw, as I wrote, with painful clearness its sure results,—the Slave Power arrogant and defiant, strengthened and encouraged to carry out its
quietness at last! The common way that all have passed She went, with mortal yearnings fond, To fuller life and love beyond. Fold the rapt soul in your embrace, My dear ones! Give the singer place To you, to her,—I know not where,— I lift the silence of a prayer. For only thus our own we find; The gone before, the left behind, All mortal voices die between; The unheard reaches the unseen. Again the blackbirds sing; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers. But not for her has spring renewed The sweet surprises of the wood; And bird and flower are lost to her Who was their best interpreter! What to shut eyes has God revealed? What hear the ears that death has sealed? What undreamed beauty passing show Requites the loss of all we know? O silent land, to which we move, Enough 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
psalm, Peace, and good — will to men! The vow of Washington. Read in New York, April 30, 1889, at the Centennial Celebration of the Inauguration of George Washington as the first President of the United States. the sword was sheathed: in April's sun Lay green the fields by Freedom won; And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States. O City sitting by the Sea! How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in itsr feast, the blueberries which I share With one who proffers with stained hands Her gleanings from yon pasture lands, Wild fruit that art and culture spoil, The harvest of an untilled soil; And with her one whose tender eyes Reflect the change of April skies, Midway 'twixt child and maiden yet, Fresh as Spring's earliest violet; And one whose look and voice and ways Make where she goes idyllic days; And one whose sweet, still countenance Seems dreamful of a child's romance; And others, welcome
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