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White (search for this): chapter 4
hurch, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America. the new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure. The Birthday Wreath. December 17, 1891. blossom and greenness, making all The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay, Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall; We saw them fade, and droop, and fall, And laid them tenderly away. White virgin lilies, mignonette, Blown rose, and pink, and violet, A breath of fragrance passing by; Visions of beauty and decay, Colors and shapes that could not stay, The fairest, sweetest, first to die. But still this rustic wreath of mine, Of acorned oak and needled pine, And lighter growths of forest lands, Woven and wound with careful pains, And tender thoughts, and prayers, remains, As when it dropped from love's dear hands. And not unfitly garlanded, Is he, who, country-born and bred, We
Milton (search for this): chapter 4
nd representing the Last Indian and the Last Bison. the eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks, For the wild hunter and the bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone Their graven semblance in the eternal stone. Lydia H. Sigourney. Inscription on her Memorial Tablet in Christ Church at Hartford, Conn. she sang alone, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day: Tender and sweet, a music all her own May fitly linger where she knelt to pray. Milton. Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America. the new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure. The Birthday Wreath. December 17, 1891. blossom and greenness, making all The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay, Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall; We saw th
Wise (search for this): chapter 4
experiment. Could it succeed? Of honor sold And hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past, Was the long dream of ages true at last? Thank God! the people's choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude! His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world's release; Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule, alone, which serves the ruled, space, From mart and crowd, her old-time grace, And guards with fondly jealous arms The wild growths of outlying farms. Her sunsets on Kenoza fall, Her autumn leaves by Saltonstall; No lavished gold can richer make Her opulence of hill and lake. Wise was the choice which led out sires To kindle here their household fires, And share the large content of all Whose lines in pleasant places fall. More dear, as years on years advance, We prize the old inheritance, And feel, as far and wide we roam
George W. Childs (search for this): chapter 4
the wild hunter and the bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone Their graven semblance in the eternal stone. Lydia H. Sigourney. Inscription on her Memorial Tablet in Christ Church at Hartford, Conn. she sang alone, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day: Tender and sweet, a music all her own May fitly linger where she knelt to pray. Milton. Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America. the new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure. The Birthday Wreath. December 17, 1891. blossom and greenness, making all The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay, Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall; We saw them fade, and droop, and fall, And laid them tenderly away. White virgin lilies, mignonette, Blown rose
Saxon (search for this): chapter 4
y old tradition handed down, In chance and change before us pass Like pictures in a magic glass, The terrors of the midnight raid, The death-concealing ambuscade, The winter march, through deserts wild, Of captive mother, wife, and child. Ah bleeding hands alone subdued And tamed the savage habitude Of forests hiding beasts of prey, And human shapes as fierce as they. Slow from the plough the woods withdrew, Slowly each year the corn-lands grew; Nor fire, nor frost, nor foe could kill The Saxon energy of will. And never in the hamlet's bound Was lack of sturdy manhood found, And never failed the kindred good Of brave and helpful womanhood. That hamlet now a city is, Its log-built huts are palaces; The wood-path of the settler's cow Is Traffic's crowded highway now. And far and wide it stretches still, Along its southward sloping hill, And overlooks on either hand A rich and many-watered land. And, gladdening all the landscape, fair As Prison was to Eden's pair, Our river to it
Lydia H. Sigourney (search for this): chapter 4
vering strain; That the New England, with the Old, holds fast The proud, fond memories of a common past; Unbroken still the ties of blood remain! Inscription. For the bass-relief by Preston Powers, carved upon the huge boulder in Denver Park, Col., and representing the Last Indian and the Last Bison. the eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks, For the wild hunter and the bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone Their graven semblance in the eternal stone. Lydia H. Sigourney. Inscription on her Memorial Tablet in Christ Church at Hartford, Conn. she sang alone, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day: Tender and sweet, a music all her own May fitly linger where she knelt to pray. Milton. Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America. the new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its
Denver Park (search for this): chapter 4
e bells on Merrimac sound across the sea. Think of our thrushes, when the lark sings clear, Of our sweet Mayflowers when the daisies bloom; And bear to our and thy ancestral home The kindly greeting of its children here. Say that our love survives the severing strain; That the New England, with the Old, holds fast The proud, fond memories of a common past; Unbroken still the ties of blood remain! Inscription. For the bass-relief by Preston Powers, carved upon the huge boulder in Denver Park, Col., and representing the Last Indian and the Last Bison. the eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks, For the wild hunter and the bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone Their graven semblance in the eternal stone. Lydia H. Sigourney. Inscription on her Memorial Tablet in Christ Church at Hartford, Conn. she sang alone, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day: Tender and sweet, a music all her own May fitly linger where she knelt
Prester John (search for this): chapter 4
els cleft The enchanted sea on which they sailed, Are these poor fragments only left Of vain desires and hopes that failed? Did I not watch from them the light Of sunset on my towers in Spain, And see, far off, uploom in sight The Fortunate Isles I might not gain? Did sudden lift of fog reveal Arcadia's vales of song and spring, And did I pass, with grazing keel, The rocks whereon the sirens sing? Have I not drifted hard upon The unmapped regions lost to man, The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, The palace domes of Kubla Khan? Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers, Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills? Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, And gold from Eldorado's hills? Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed On blind Adventure's errand sent, Howe'er they laid their courses, failed To reach the haven of Content. And of my ventures, those alone Which Love had freighted, safely sped, Seeking a good beyond my own, By clear-eyed Duty piloted. O mariners, hoping still
Elizabeth H. Whittier (search for this): chapter 4
e these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-Merciful and Just. The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal life reveals; And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine. Come then, in thought, if that alone may be, O friend! and bring with thee Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres And the Eternal Years! August 31, 1890. To Oliver Wendell Holmes. 8th Mo. 29th, 1892. This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeks before his death. among the thousands who with hail and cheer Will welcome thy new year, How few of all have passed, as thou and I, So many milestones by! We have grown old together; we have seen, Our youth and age between, Two generations leave us, and to-day We with the third hold way, Loving and loved. If thought must backward run To those who, one by one, In the great silence and the dark beyond Vanished with farewells fond, Unseen, not lost;
Valentine Bagley (search for this): chapter 4
ame shall be our Union-bond; We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now. Take on our lips the old Centennial vow. For rule and trust must needs be ours; Chooser and chosen both are powers Equal in service as in rights; the claim Of Duty rests on each and all the same. Then let the sovereign millions, where Our banner floats in sun and air, From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old! The Captain's well. The story of the shipwreck of Captain Valentine Bagley, on the coast of Arabia, and his sufferings in the desert, has been familiar from my childhood. It has been partially told in the singularly beautiful lines of my friend, Harriet Prescott Spofford, on the occasion of a public celebration at the Newburyport Library. To the charm and felicity of her verse, as far as it goes, nothing can be added; but in the following ballad I have endeavored to give a fuller detail of the touching incident upon which it is founded. from pain and p
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