Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.
The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
Be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep.
No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.
Among the noblest in the land - Though man may count himself the least - That man I honor and revere, Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand, The friend of every friendless beast.
I love thee, as the good love heaven.
To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide.
Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!
Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.
Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.
Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.
To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.
To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.
O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.
A man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person.
Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.
Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.
Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm.
The bells themselves are the best of preachers, Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting.
Truths that startled the generation in which they were first announced become in the next age the commonplaces of conversation; as the famous airs of operas which thrilled the first audiences come to be played on hand-organs in the streets.
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