No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
Comfort and indolence are cronies.
Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own; How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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