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Page 102 - The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.
Page 103 - From his nest by the white wave's foam ; And the rocking pines of the forest roared : This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band : Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? They sought a faith's pure shrine....
Page 291 - I confess I am not charmed with the ideal of life held out by those who think that the normal state of human beings is that of struggling to get on ; that the trampling, crushing, elbowing, and treading on each other's heels, which form the existing type of social life, are the most desirable lot of human kind, or anything but the disagreeable symptoms of one of the phases of industrial progress.
Page 183 - ... we are reduced to the alternative of believing that the Mind, or Ego, is something different from any series of feelings, or possibilities of them, or of accepting the paradox, that something which ex hypothesi is but a series of feelings, can be aware of itself as a series.
Page 91 - O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight, — Where are those dreamers now ? One midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid, — The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.
Page 160 - Thus it is an indisputable truth that what we call the material world is only known to us under the forms of the ideal world ; and, as Descartes tells us, our knowledge of the soul is more intimate and certain than our knowledge of the body.
Page 55 - OF Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day.
Page 55 - Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet days die, — Remember me a little then, I pray, The idle singer of an empty day.
Page 162 - I think evident, that we find in ourselves a power to begin or forbear, continue or end, several actions of our minds and motions of our bodies, barely by a thought or preference of the mind ordering, or, as it were, commanding the doing or not doing such or such a particular action.
Page 105 - We depart, We vanish from the sky ; Ask what is deathless in thy heart, For that which cannot die." Speak then, thou voice of God within, Thou of the deep, low tone ! Answer me, through life's restless din, Where is the spirit flown ? And the voice answer'd — "Be thou still! Enough to know is given ; Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil, Thine is to trust in Heaven.