One brave deed makes no hero.
Truth is one; And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may see The tokens of its unity.
O brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother; Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there; To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.
From the death of the old the new proceeds, and the life of truth from the death of creeds.
A faint blush melting through the light of thy transparent cheek like a rose-leaf bathed in dew.
Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will.
Others may sing the song. Others may right the wrong.
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie?
If thou of fortune be bereft, and in thy store there be but left two loaves, sell one, and with the dole, buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
The continuity of life is never broken; the river flows onward and is lost to our sight, but under its new horizon it carries the same waters which it gathered under ours, and its unseen valleys are made glad by the offerings which are borne down to them from the past,--flowers, perchance, the germs of which its own waves had planted on the banks of Time.
The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.
What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite?
The Beauty which old Greece or RomeSung, painted, wrought, lies close at home.
Beauty is its own excuse.
God blesses still the generous thought,And still the fitting word He speeds,And Truth, at His requiring taught,He quickens into deeds.
The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame; Buy cheap, sell dear; eat. drink, and sleep down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore; The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore!
Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
Sweeter than any sungMy songs that found no tongue;Nobler than any factMy wish that failed of act.Others shall sing the song,Others shall right the wrong,-Finish what I begin,And all I fail of win.
What, my soul, was thy errand here? Was it mirth or ease, Or heaping up dust from year to year? "Nay, none of these!" Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight, Whose eye looks still And steadily on thee through the night; "To do His will!
The Fates are just: they give us but our own; Nemesis ripens what our hands have sown.
Nature speaks in symbols and in signs.
Better heresy of doctrine than heresy of heart.
Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, But spare his "Highland Mary!"
What is good looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle,-generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around you; and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words of admiration.
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