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Hampden, Me. (Maine, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
How deepened, through that dread surprise, The mystery and the awe of death! From the high place whereon our votes Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell His first words, like the prelude notes Of some great anthem yet to swell. We seemed to see our flag unfurled, Our champion waiting in his place For the last battle of the world, The Armageddon of the race. Through him we hoped to speak the word Which wins the freedom of a land; And lift, for human right, the sword Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand. For he had sat at Sidney's feet, And walked with Pym and Vane apart; And, through the centuries, felt the beat Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart. He knew the paths the worthies held, Where England's best and wisest trod; And, lingering, drank the springs that welled Beneath the touch of Milton's rod. No wild enthusiast of the right, Self-poised and clear, he showed alway The coolness of his northern night, The ripe repose of autumn's day. His steps were slow, yet for
Latium (Italy) (search for this): chapter 1
meant. He loved his books, the Art that hints A beauty veiled behind its own, The graver's line, the pencil's tints, The chisel's shape evoked from stone. He cherished, void of selfish ends, The social courtesies that bless And sweeten life, and loved his friends With most unworldly tenderness. But still his tired eyes rarely learned The glad relief by Nature brought; Her mountain ranges never turned His current of persistent thought. The sea rolled chorus to his speech Three-banked like Latium's tall trireme, With laboring oars; the grove and beach Were Forum and the Academe. The sensuous joy from all things fair His strenuous bent of soul repressed, And left from youth to silvered hair Few hours for pleasure, none for rest. For all his life was poor without, O Nature, make the last amends! Train all thy flowers his grave about, And make thy singing-birds his friends! Revive again, thou summer rain, The broken turf upon his bed! Breathe, summer wind, thy tenderest strain Of lo
Castalian Springs (Tennessee, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
hern winds along; If I have failed to join the fickle throng In wide-eyed wonder, that thou standest strong In victory, surprised in thee to find Brougham's scathing power with Canning's grace combined; That he, for whom the ninefold Muses sang, From their twined arms a giant athlete sprang, Barbing the arrows of his native tongue With the spent shafts Latona's archer flung, To smite the Python of our land and time, Fell as 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 r
Olney, Richland County, Illinois (Illinois, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
ms Above the thorny crown! The choral praise, the chanted prayers From harps by angels strung, The hunted Cameron's mountain airs, The hymns that Luther sung! Yet, jarring not the heavenly notes, The sounds of earth are heard, As through the open minster floats The song of breeze and bird! Not less the wonder of the sky That daisies bloom below; The brook sings on, though loud and high The cloudy organs blow! And, if the tender ear be jarred That, haply, hears by turns The saintly harp of Olney's bard, The pastoral pipe of Burns, No discord mars His perfect plan Who gave them both a tongue; For he who sings the love of man The love of God hath sung! To-day be every fault forgiven Of him in whom we joy! We take, with thanks, the gold of Heaven And leave the earth's alloy. Be ours his music as of spring, His sweetness as of flowers, The songs the bard himself might sing In holier ears than ours. Sweet airs of love and home, the hum Of household melodies, Come singing, as the robins
United States (United States) (search for this): chapter 1
ical opinions. He became Professor of Civil Law in the University of Basle. The governments of Prussia, Austria, and Russia united in demanding his delivery as a political offender; and, in consequence, he left Switzerland, and came to the United States. At the time of the formation of the American Anti-Slavery Society he was a Professor in Harvard University, honored for his genius, learning, and estimable character. His love of liberty and hatred of oppression led him to seek an intervieave-trade and slavery; and had twice before made visits to this country, under impressions of religious duty. He was the father of the Right Hon. William Edward Forster. He visited my father's house in Haverhill during his first tour in the United States. the years are many since his hand Was laid upon my head, Too weak and young to understand The serious words he said. Yet often now the good man's look Before me seems to swim, As if some inward feeling took The outward guise of him. As if
Creole (Ohio, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
ched bosom of a barren soil, Raised up in life and power: How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, A tendering love Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, And words of fitness to his lips were given, And strength as from above: How the sad captive listened to the Word, Until his chain Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life-long pain: How the armed warrior sat him down to hear Of Peace and Truth, And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, And fair and bright-eyed youth. Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy, Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore, His simple record I have pondered o'er With deep and quiet joy. And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm,— Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and shade, Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade,— To me is holy ground. And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps His vigils still;
Brooklyn (New York, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
hy spirit's eye Yet the vast mountains lie Piled in the Switzer's sky, Icy and gleaming: Prompter of silent prayer, Be the wild picture there In the mind's chamber, And, through each coming day Him who, as staff and stay, Watched o'er thy wandering way, Freshly remember. So, when the call shall be Soon or late unto thee, As to all given, Still may that picture live, All its fair forms survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness in Heaven! 1841. Lucy Hooper. Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I., on the 1st of 8th mo., 1841, aged twenty-four years. they tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, The twilight of a parted day Whose fading light is cold and vain, The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart, that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light o
Lay Mountain (Kentucky, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
r own gift, Making their lives a prayer! 1850. The hill-top. the burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows hid The top-stone, bare and brown, From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid, The rough mass slanted down. I felt the cool breath of the North; Between me and the sun, O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth, I saw the cloud-shades run. Before me, stretched for glistening miles, Lay mountain-girdled Squam ; Like green-winged birds, the leafy isles Upon its bosom swam. And, glimmering through the sun-haze warm, Far as the eye could roam, Dark billows of an earthquake storm Beflecked with clouds like foam, Their vales in misty shadow deep, Their rugged peaks in shine, I saw the mountain ranges sweep The horizon's northern line. There towered Chocorua's peak; and west, Moosehillock's woods were seen, With many a nameless slide-scarred crest And pine-dark gorge between. Beyond
Tennessee (Tennessee, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
that closed so well No lapse of folly now can stain: The lips whence Freedom's protest fell No meaner thought can now profane. Mightier than living voice his grave That lofty protest utters o'er; Through roaring wind and smiting wave It speaks his hate of wrong once more. Men of the North! your weak regret Is wasted here; arise and pay To freedom and to him your debt, By following where he led the way! “ 1853. William Forster. William Forster, of Norwich, England, died in East Tennessee, in the 1st month, 1854, while engaged in presenting to the governors of the States of this Union the address of his religious society on the evils of slavery. He was the relative and coadjutor of the Buxtons, Gurneys, and Frys; and his whole life, extending almost to threescore and ten years, was a pure and beautiful example of Christian benevolence. He had travelled over Europe, and visited most of its sovereigns, to plead against the slave-trade and slavery; and had twice before mad
Elmwood, Ill. (Illinois, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
of silver, The golden lips are still! For her whose life of duty At scoff and menace smiled, Brave as the wife of Roland, Yet gentle as a Child. And for him the three-hilled city Shall hold in memory long, Whose name is the hint and token Of the pleasant Fields of Song! For the old friends unforgotten, For the young thou hast not known, I speak their heart-warm greeting; Come back and take thy own! From England's royal farewells, And honors fitly paid, Come back, dear Russell Lowell, To Elmwood's waiting shade! Come home with all the garlands That crown of right thy head. I speak for comrades living, I speak for comrades dead! Amesbury, 6th mo., 1885. An Artist of the beautiful. George fuller. haunted Of Beauty, like the marvellous youth Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair Her shapes took color in thy homestead air! How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth! Magician! who from commonest elements Called up divine ideals, clothed upon By mystic lights soft bl
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