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Wordsworth (search for this): chapter 3
o readier lips than his the good he saw confessed. His boyhood fancies not outgrown, He loved himself the singer's art; Tenderly, gently, by his own He knew and judged an author's heart. No Rhadamanthine brow of doom Bowed the dazed pedant from his room; And bards, whose name is legion, if denied, Bore off alike intact their verses and their pride. Pleasant it was to roam about The lettered world as he had done, And see the lords of song without Their singing robes and garlands on. With Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere, Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer, And with the ears of Rogers, at fourscore, Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit once more. And one there was, a dreamer born, Who, with a mission to fulfil, Had left the Muses' haunts to turn The crank of an opinion-mill, Making his rustic reed of song A weapon in the war with wrong, Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring and grow. Too quiet seemed the man to ride Th
Eunice Cole (search for this): chapter 3
eir lighted kerosene, Hearing the deep bass roar their every pause between. Then, urged thereto, the Editor Within his full portfolio dipped, Feigning excuse while seaching for (With secret pride) his manuscript. His pale face flushed from eye to beard, With nervous cough his throat he cleared, And, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed The anxious fondness of an author's heart, he read: 1867. The wreck of Rivermouth. The Goody Cole who figures in this poem and The Changeling was Eunice Cole, who for a quarter of a century or more was feared, persecuted, and hated as the witch of Hampton. She lived alone in a hovel a little distant from the spot where the Hampton Academy now stands, and there she died, unattended. When her death was discovered, she was hastily covered up in the earth near by, and a stake driven through her body, to exorcise the evil spirit. Rev. Stephen Bachiler or Batchelder was one of the ablest of the early New England preachers. His marriage late in l
lm. The very waves that washed the sand Below him, he had seen before Whitening the Scandinavian strand And sultry Mauritanian shore. From ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas Palm-fringed, they bore him messages; He heard the plaintive Nubian songs again, And mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths of Spain. His memory round the ransacked earth On Puck's long girdle slid at ease; And, instant, to the valley's girth Of mountains, spice isles of the seas, Faith flowered in minster stones, Art's guess At truth and beauty, found access; Yet loved the while, that free cosmopolite, Old friends, old ways, and kept his boyhood's dreams in sight. Untouched as yet by wealth and pride, That virgin innocence of beach: No shingly monster, hundred-eyed, Stared its gray sand-birds out of reach; Unhoused, save where, at intervals, The white tents showed their canvas walls, Where brief sojourners, in the cool, soft air, Forgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long care. Sometimes along
Harriet Stowe (search for this): chapter 3
, And battle-music of the drum. A little while the world may run Its old mad way, with needle-gun And iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall reign: The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain!” Shifting his scattered papers, ‘Here,’ He said, as died the faint applause, “Is something that I found last year Down on the island known as Orr's. I had it from a fair-haired girl Who, oddly, bore the name of Pearl, (As if by some droll freak of circumstance,) Classic, or wellnigh so, in Harriet Stowe's romance.” The dead Ship of Harpswell. what flecks the outer gray beyond The sundown's golden trail? The white flash of a sea-bird's wing, Or gleam of slanting sail? Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point, And sea-worn elders pray,— The ghost of what was once a ship Is sailing up the bay From gray sea-fog, from icy drift, From peril and from pain, The home-bound fisher greets thy lights, O hundred-harbored Maine! But many a keel shall seaward turn, And many a sail outstand.
band, Whose look some homestead old recalled; Brother perchance, and sisters twain, And one whose blue eyes told, more plain Than the free language of her rosy lip, Of the still dearer claim of love's relationship. With cheeks of russet-orchard tint, The light laugh of their native rills, The perfume of their garden's mint, The breezy freedom of the hills, They bore, in unrestrained delight, The motto of the Garter's knight, Careless as if from every gazing thing Hid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring. The clanging sea-fowl came and went, The hunter's gun in the marshes rang; At nightfall from a neighboring tent A flute-voiced woman sweetly sang. Loose-haired, barefooted, hand-in-hand, Young girls went tripping down the sand; And youths and maidens, sitting in the moon, Dreamed o'er the old fond dream from which we wake too soon. At times their fishing-lines they plied, With an old Triton at the oar, Salt as the sea-wind, tough and dried As a lean cusk from Labrador. Strange
Hosea Biglow (search for this): chapter 3
hipful justice (Upon whose soul be peace!) Set his name to the jailer's warrant For Goodwife Cole's release. Then through the night the hoof-beats Went sounding like a flail; And Goody Cole at cockcrow Came forth from Ipswich jail. 1865. “Here is a rhyme: I hardly dare To venture on its theme worn out; What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr Sounds simply silly hereabout; And pipes by lips Arcadian blown Are only tin horns at our own. Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us, While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus.” The Maids of Attitash. Attitash, an Indian word signifying huckleberry, is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury. in sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen, When, in the shadow of the ash That dreams its dream in Attitash, In the warm summer weather, Two maidens sat together. They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of l
an Indian word signifying huckleberry, is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury. in sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen, When, in the shadow of the ash That dreams its dream in Attitash, In the warm summer weather, Two maidens sat together. They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood; The beach the keen light smote, The white sail of a boat; Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying; Hardhack, and virgin's-bower, And white-spiked clethra-flower. With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash, The wood-bird's plaintive cry, The locust's sharp reply. And teased the while, with playful hand, The shaggy dog of Newfoundland, Whose uncouth frolic spilled Their baskets berry-filled. Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, Tossed back her queenly head, And, light
Bayard Taylor (search for this): chapter 3
The tent on the Beach It can scarcely be necessary to name as the two companions whom I reckoned with myself in this poetical picnic, Fields the lettered magnate, and Taylor the free cosmopolite. The long line of sandy beach which defines almost the whole of the New Hampshire sea-coast is especially marked near its southern extremity, by the salt-meadows of Hampton. The Hampton River winds through these meadows, and the reader may, if he choose, imagine my tent pitched near its mouth, wd and green Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam wreaths seen. “ Sing while we may,—another day May bring enough of sorrow; —thus Our Traveller in his own sweet lay, His Crimean camp-song, hints to us,” The reference is to Bayard Taylor's poem, The Song of the Camp. The lady said. “So let it be; Sing us a song,” exclaimed all three. She smiled: “I can but marvel at your choice To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed voice.” Her window opens to the bay,
Doth the Love Eternal flow; Every chain that spirits wear Crumbles in the breath of prayer; And the penitent's desire Opens every gate of fire. Still Thy love, O Christ arisen, Yearns to reach these souls in prison! Through all depths of sin and loss Drops the plummet of Thy cross! Never yet abyss was found Deeper than that crossd battle-music of the drum. A little while the world may run Its old mad way, with needle-gun And iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall reign: The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain!” Shifting his scattered papers, ‘Here,’ He said, as died the faint applause, “Is something that I found last year Down on the island k; the sounds of labor died; Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked A loving guest at Bethany, but stern As Justice and inexorable Law. Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as g
ancing his written pages o'er, The Reader tried his part once more; Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine. The brother of Mercy. Piero Luca, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down His last sad burden, and beside his mat The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat. Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted, Soft sunset lights through green Val d'arno sifted; Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life: But when at last came upward from the street Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. And the monk said, “Tis but the Brotherhood Of Mercy going on some errand good: Their black masks by the palace-wall I see.” Piero answered faintly, “Woe is me! This day f<
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