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Interrogavi Terramn Zzz (search for this): chapter 1
moonbeams, Beautiful and frail! O'er the rough chart of Existence, Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, And cool fountains flow. And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and waters And the stars reply. But a soul-sufficing answer Hath no outward origin; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within. Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky, August. Soliloq. cap. XXXI. ‘Interrogavi Terramn Zzz’ etc. And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy. But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught; More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought. Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame, Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came. Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and duty As our being's end; Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone, But to Faith, in daily
Zoroaster (search for this): chapter 1
for the subtle essence, And the hidden springs. Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been. Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime. All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed,— Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest: That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw. From the doubt and darkness springing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast, Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching: What and where is Truth? Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead. Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings Only wake a quiet scorn,— Not from these thy seeking spirit H
rough the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence, And the hidden springs. Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been. Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime. All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed,— Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest: That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw. From the doubt and darkness springing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast, Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching: What and where is Truth? Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead. Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings Only wake a quiet sc
Wordsworth (search for this): chapter 1
r foreheads to diviner air, Fit emblem of enduring fame, One lofty summit keeps thy name. For thee the cosmic forces did The rearing of that pyramid, The prescient ages shaping with Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. Sunrise and sunset lay thereon With hands of light their benison, The stars of midnight pause to set Their jewels in its coronet. And evermore that mountain mass Seems climbing from the shadowy pass To light, as if to manifest Thy nobler self, thy life at best! 1880. Wordsworth. Written on a blank leaf of his Memoirs. dear friends, who read the world aright, And in its common forms discern A beauty and a harmony The many never learn! Kindred in soul of him who found In simple flower and leaf and stone The impulse of the sweetest lays Our Saxon tongue has known,— Accept this record of a life As sweet and pure, as calm and good, As a long day of blandest June In green field and in wood. How welcome to our ears, long pained By strife of sect and party noise, T
John Woolman (search for this): chapter 1
In thy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom giving All thy early powers, Be thy virtues with the living, And thy spirit ours! 1837. To——-- With a Copy of Woolman's Journal. Get the writings of John Woolman by heart. —Essays of Elia. maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoJohn Woolman by heart. —Essays of Elia. maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky. Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide,— Instinct take the place of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide. Ever in the New rejoicing, Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold. And the passing shades of sadness Wearing eventhout, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailing Every form of wrong. Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of Woolman's feet! And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet! O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste
Withington (search for this): chapter 1
atchful pedagogue; Or, while pleasure smiles on duty, At the call of youth and beauty, Speak for them the spell of law Which shall bar and bolt withdraws And the flaming sword remove From the Paradise of Love. Still, with undimmed eyesight, pore Ancient tome and record o'er; Still thy week-day lyrics croon, Pitch in church the Sunday tune, Showing something, in thy part, Of the old Puritanic art, Singer after Sternhold's heart! In thy pew, for many a year, Homilies from Oldbug hear, Dr. Withington, author of The Puritan, under the name of Jonathan Oldbug. Who to wit like that of South, And the Syrian's golden mouth, Doth the homely pathos add Which the pilgrim preachers had; Breaking, like a child at play, Gilded idols of the day, Cant of knave and pomp of fool Tossing with his ridicule, Yet, in earnest or in jest, Ever keeping truth abreast. And, when thou art called, at last, To thy townsmen of the past, Not as stranger shalt thou come; Thou shalt find thyself at home With the
per by the Northern sea, The gates of opportunity! God fills the gaps of human need, Each crisis brings its word and deed. Wise men and strong we did not lack; But still, with memory turning back, In the dark hours we thought of thee, And thy lone gr, to look With complacence on a book!— Where the genial pedagogue Half forgot his rogues to flog, Citing tale or apologue, Wise and merry in its drift As was Phaedrus' twofold gift, Had the little rebels known it, Risum et prudentiam monet! I,—the ma And thy primal lessons, feel Grateful smiles my lips unseal, As, remembering thee, I blend Olden teacher, present friend, Wise with antiquarian search, In the scrolls of State and Church: Named on history's title-page, Parish-clerk and justice sage;at home With the little and the big, Woollen cap and periwig, Madam in her high-laced ruff, Goody in her home-made stuff,— Wise and simple, rich and poor, Thou hast known them all before! 1851. The cross. Richard Dillingham, a young member <
of thee; Let the mortal only be Clothed in immortality. And when fall our feet as fell Thine upon the asphodel, Let thy old smile greet us well; Proving in a world of bliss What we fondly dream in this,— Love is one with holiness! 1881. Wilson. Read at the Massachusetts Club on the seventieth anniversary of the birthday of Vice-President Wilson, February 16, 1882. the lowliest born of all the land, He wrung from Fate's reluctant hand The gifts which happier boyhood claims; And, taVice-President Wilson, February 16, 1882. the lowliest born of all the land, He wrung from Fate's reluctant hand The gifts which happier boyhood claims; And, tasting on a thankless soil The bitter bread of unpaid toil, He fed his soul with noble aims. And Nature, kindly provident, To him the future's promise lent; The powers that shape man's destinies, Patience and faith and toil, he knew, The close horizon round him grew, Broad with great possibilities. By the low hearth-fire's fitful blaze He read of old heroic days, The sage's thought, the patriot's speech; Unhelped, alone, himself he taught, His school the craft at which he wrought, His lore the
the monster born of Crissa's slime, Like the blind bard who in Castalian springs Tempered the steel that clove the crest of kings, And on the shrine of England's freedom laid The gifts of Cumae and of Delphi's shade,— Small need hast thou of words of praise from me. Thou knowest my heart, dear friend, and well canst guess That, even though silent, I have not the less Rejoiced to see thy actual life agree With the large future which I shaped for thee, When, years ago, beside the summer sea, White in the moon, we saw the long waves fall Baffled and broken from the rocky wall, That, to the menace of the brawling flood, Opposed alone its massive quietude, Calm as a fate; with not a leaf nor vine Nor birch-spray trembling in the still moonshine, Crowning it like God's peace. I sometimes think That night-scene by the sea prophetical, (For Nature speaks in symbols and in signs, And through her pictures human fate divines), That rock, wherefrom we saw the billows sink In murmuring rout, up
Daniel Wheeler (search for this): chapter 1
rvest Lie white in view! She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true. Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants Thy call abide; And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside! 1845. Daniel Wheeler. Daniel Wheeler, a minister of the Society of Friends, who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this Daniel Wheeler, a minister of the Society of Friends, who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country. O dearly loved! And worthy of our love! No more Thy aged form shall rise before The hushed and waiting worshipper, In meek obedience utterance giving To words of truth, so fresh and living, That, even to the inward sense, They bore unquestioned evidence Of an anointed Messenger! Or, bowing down thy silver hair In reverent awfulness of prayer, The world, its time and sense, shut out The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance, As if each lingering cloud of doubt
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