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And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!
- For an Autumn Festival [Thanksgiving Day]
The nations lift their right hands up and swear
Their oath of freedom.
- Garibaldi [Freedom]
Cast not the clouded gem away,
Quench not the dim but living ray,--
My brother man, Beware!
With that deep voice which from the skies
Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice.
God's angel, cries, Forbear!
- Human Sacrifice (pt. VII) [Murder]
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore;
The glory from his gray hairs gone
- Ichabod [Misfortune]
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!
- Ichabod (st. 8) [Man]
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow
And blackberry vines are running.
- In School Days [Education]
"I'm sorry that I spell'd the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because"--the brown eyes lowered fell,--
"Because, you see, I love you!"
- In School-Days (st. 4) [Love]
From purest wells of English undefiled
None deeper drank than he, the New World's Child,
Who in the language of their farm field spoke
The wit and wisdom of New England folk.
- James Russell Lowell [Language]
And I will trust that He who heeds
The life that hides in mead and wold,
Who hangs you alder's crimson beads,
And stains these mosses green and gold,
Will still, as He hath done, incline
His gracious care to me and mine.
- Last Walk in Autumn (st. 26) [Providence]
What airs outblown from ferny dells
And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.
- Last Walk in Autumn (st. 6) [Clover]
I have friends in Spirit Land,--
Not shadows in a shadowy band,
Not others but themselves are they,
And still I think of them the same
As when the Master's summons came.
- Lucy Hooper [Friends]
Make we here our camp of winter;
And, through sleet and snow,
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow.
Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone
Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,
Childhood's lisping tone.
- Lumbermen (st. 8) [Winter]
Maud Muller looked and sighed: :Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine."
- Maud Miller (l. 35) [Vanity]
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
- Maud Muller (l. 105) [Words]
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than they!
- Memories (st. 4) [Memory]
We search the world for truth; we cull
The good, the pure, the beautiful,
From all old flower fields of the soul;
And, weary seeker of the best,
We come back laden from out quest,
To find that all the sages said
Is in the Book our mothers read.
- Miriam [Scripture]
'Tis spring-time on the eastern hills!
Like torrents gush the summer rills;
Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves
The bladed grass revives and lives,
Pushed the mouldering waste away,
And glimpses to the April day.
- Mogg Megone (pt. III) [Spring]
I would I were a painter, for the sake
Of a sweet picture, and of her who led,
A fitting guide, with reverential tread,
Into that mountain mystery.
- Mountain Pictures (no. 2) [Painting]
God is and all is well.
- My Birthday [God]
Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;
Break but one
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar
Through all will run.
- My Soul and I (st. 38) [Destiny]
Other may sing the song,
Others may right the wrong.
- My Triumph [Success]
But dream not helm and harness
The sign of valor true;
Peace hath higher tests of manhood
Than battle ever knew.
- Poems--The Hero (st. 19) [Peace]
A bending staff I would not break,
A feeble faith I would not shake,
Nor even rashly pluck away
The error which some truth may stay,
Whose loss might leave the soul without
A shield against the shafts of doubt.
- Questions of Life (st. 1) [Faith]
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.
- Rantoul [War]
Around the mighty master came
The marvels which his pencil wrought,
Those miracles of power whose fame
Is wide as human thought.
- Raphael (st. 8) [Art]
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