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Georgia (Georgia, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
pt away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men? Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time. But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines; Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven; Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven; Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The workmanship of God,— There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man! Joy to thy spirit, brother! A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm. What though red-hand
Treviri (Rheinland-Pfalz, Germany) (search for this): chapter 1
in Thine arms, And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and Thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand Between us and the wrong, And her dear memory serve to make Our faith in Goodness strong. And grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers, May welcome to her holier home The well-beloved of ours. 1845. To Ronge. This was written after reading the powerful and manly protest of Johannes Ronge against the pious fraud of the Bishop of Treves. The bold movement of the young Catholic priest of Prussian Silesia seemed to me full of promise to the cause of political as well as religious liberty in Europe. That it failed was due partly to the faults of the reformer, but mainly to the disagreement of the Liberals of Germany upon a matter of dogma, which prevented them from unity of action. Ronge was born in Silesia in 1813 and died in October, 1887. His autobiography was translated into English and published in London in 1846. st
Nazareth, Pennsylvania (Pennsylvania, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
n all who sat without. Of many a hint of life beyond the veil, And many a ghostly tale Wherewith the ages spanned the gulf between The seen and the unseen, Seeking from omen, trance, and dream to gain Solace to doubtful pain, And touch, with groping hands, the garment hem Of truth sufficing them, We talked; and, turning from the sore unrest Of an all-baffling quest, We thought of holy lives that from us passed Hopeful unto the last, As if they saw beyond the river of death, Like Him of Nazareth, The many mansions of the Eternal days Lift up their gates of praise. And, hushed to silence by a reverent awe, Methought, O friend, I saw In thy true life of word, and work, and thought The proof of all we sought. Did we not witness in the life of thee Immortal prophecy? And feel, when with thee, that thy footsteps trod An everlasting road? Not for brief days thy generous sympathies, Thy scorn of selfish ease; Not for the poor prize of an earthly goal Thy strong uplift of soul. Than th
Sydney (Ohio, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
n his spear! “ Then I said, my own heart throbbing To the time her proud pulse beat, “Life hath its regal natures yet, True, tender, brave, and sweet! Smile not, fair unbeliever! One man, at least, I know, Who might wear the crest of Bayard Or Sidney's plume of snow. Once, when over purple mountains Died away the Grecian sun, And the far Cyllenian ranges Paled and darkened, one by one,— Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, Cleaving all the quiet sky, And against his sharp steel lightnings Stoin 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 welle<
8. Bayard Taylor. I ‘and where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?’ My sister asked our guest one winter's day. Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way Common to both: “Wherever thou shalt send! What wouldst thou have me see for thee?” She laughed, Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-fire's glow: “Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low, Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishing-craft.” ‘All these and more I soon shall see for thee!’ He answered cheerily: and he kept his pledge On Lapland snows, the North Cape's windy wedge, And Tromso freezing in its winter sea. He went and came. But no man knows. the track Of his last journey, and he comes not back! II. He brought us wonders of the new and old; We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent To him its story-telling secret lent. And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told. His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure, In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought; From humble home-lays to the heights of tho
atching lone The hot Sardinian coast-line, hazy-hilled, Where, fringing round Caprera's rocky zone With foam, the slow waves gather and withdraw, Behold'st the vision of the seer fulfilled, And hear'st the sea-winds burdened with a sound Of falling chains, as, one by one, unbound, The nations lift their right hands up and swear Their oath of freedom. From the chalk-white wall Of England, from the black Carpathian range, Along the Danube and the Theiss, through all The passes of the Spanish Pyrenees, And from the Seine's thronged banks, a murmur strange And glad floats to thee o'er thy summer seas On the salt wind that stirs thy whitening hair,— The song of freedom's bloodless victories! Rejoice, O Garibaldi! Though thy sword Failed at Rome's gates, and blood seemed vainly poured Where, in Christ's name, the crowned infidel Of France wrought murder with the arms of hell On that sad mountain slope whose ghostly dead, Unmindful of the gray exorcist's ban, Walk, unappeased, the chambere
Sheffield (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 1
h pursued The path allotted him. How echoes yet each Western hill And vale with Channing's dying word! How are the hearts of freemen still By that great warning stirred! The stranger treads his native soil. And pleads, with zeal unfelt before, The honest right of British toil, The claim of England's poor. Before him time-wrought barriers fall, Old fears subside, old hatreds melt, And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, The Saxon greets the Celt. The yeoman on the Scottish lines, The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, The delver in the Cornwall mines, Look up with hope to him. Swart smiters of the glowing steel, Dark feeders of the forge's flame, Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, Repeat his honored name. And thus the influence of that hour Of converse on Rhode Island's strand Lives in the calm, resistless power Which moves our fatherland. God blesses still the generous thought, And still the fitting word He speeds And Truth, at His requiring taught, He quickens into deeds.
Darien, Ga. (Georgia, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
hearth and home,—from her, The last bud on thy household tree, The last dear one to minister In duty and in love to thee, From all which nature holdeth dear, Feeble with years and worn with pain, To seek our distant land again, Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing The things which should befall thee here, Whether for labor or for death, In childlike trust serenely going To that last trial of thy faith! Oh, far away, Where never shines our Northern star On that dark waste which Balboa saw From Darien's mountains stretching far, So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that there, With forehead to its damp wind bare, He bent his mailed knee in awe; In many an isle whose coral feet The surges of that ocean beat, In thy palm shadows, Oahu, And Honolulu's silver bay, Amidst Owyhee's hills of blue, And taro-plains of Tooboonai, Are gentle hearts, which long shall be Sad as our own at thought of thee, Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed, Whose souls in weariness and need Were strengthened and refreshe
Amesbury (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
d 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 blending into one Womanly grace and child-like innocence. Teacher! thy lesson was not given in vain. Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin; Art's place i
Austria (Austria) (search for this): chapter 1
ssorship in the University of Jena, and compelled to seek shelter from official prosecution in Switzerland, on account of his liberal political 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 Univeontinents!—combining The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow Of Asian song and prophecy,—the shining Of Orient splendors over Northern snow! Who shall receive him? Who, unblushing, speak Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off At the same blow the fetters of the serf, Rearing the altar of his Fatherland On the firm base of freedom, and thereby Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand, Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie! Who
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