FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. A sacred burden is this life ye bear, JOHN G. WHITTIER. The hope of all who suffer, The Mantle of St. John De Matha. Making their lives a prayer. On receiving a Basket of Sea Mosses. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!" Maud Muller. Give lettered pomp to teeth of time, So Bonny Doon but tarry; Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, Lines on Burns. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. Each and All. Not from a vain or shallow thought The Problem. Out from the heart of Nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old. Ibid. The hand that rounded Peter's dome, Himself from God he could not free; The conscious stone to beauty grew. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon Ibid. Ib... Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home: Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. Good-Bye. What are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet? Ibid. If eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being. The Rhodora. The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem. Dirge. Here once the embattled farmers stood, It is as impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as for a thing to be and not to be at the same time. Essay on Compensation. All mankind love a lover. Essay on Love. The alleged power to charm down insanity, or ferocity in beasts, is a power behind the eye. Essay on Behaviour. Thought is the property of him who can entertain it, and of him who can adequately place it. Representative Men. Shakespeare. I rarely read any Latin, Greek, German, Italian, sometimes not a French book, in the original, which I can procure in a good version. ... I should as soon think of swimming across Charles River when I wish to go to Boston, as of reading all my books in originals, when I have them rendered for me in my mother tongue. Books. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 1 "Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. A Psalm of Life. Art is long, and Time is fleeting,2 And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. Ibid. Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Ivid. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, Let us, then, be up and doing, Singet nicht in Trauertönen Von der Einsamkeit der Nacht. Ibid. Ibid. Song of Philine in Wilhelm Meister. 2 Ars longa, vita brevis. Hippocrates, Aphorism i. 3 Compare Byron, To Moore, ante, p. 528. There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, The Reaper and the Flowers. The star of the unconquered will. The Light of Stars. O, fear not in a world like this, To suffer and be strong. Ibid. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. Endymion. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, The Golden Legend. |