On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll; on plastic clay and leather scroll, man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed, and lo! the Press was found at last!
To be saved is only this-salvation from our own selfishness.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!
And the more you spend in blessing The poor and lonely and sad, The more of your heart's possessing Returns to you glad.
Love hath never known a law beyond its own sweet will.
Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers And piled with fruits, awake again Thanksgivings for the golden hours, The early and the latter rain!
When earth as if on evil dreams Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams From the red disc of Mars, His fame, who led the stormy van Of battle, well may cease; But never that which crowns the man Whose victory was peace.
What does the good ship bear so well? The cocoa-nut with its stony shell, And the milky sap of its inner cell.
God is good and God is light In this faith I rest secure, Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.
Simple duty hath no place for fear.
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.
Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying.
What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.
The low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings.
What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite?
And light is mingled with the gloom, And joy with grief; Divinest compensations come, Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom In sweet relief.
Formed on the good old plan, A true and brave and downright honest man! He blew no trumpet in the market-place, Nor in the church with hypocritic face Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace; Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will What others talked of while their hands were still.
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.
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore; The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore!
Beauty is its own excuse.
Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away; Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in.
And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!
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