Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter! The Song of Hiawatha. Part xx. God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting.1 The Courtship of Miles Standish. Part iv. the corner-stone of a nation.2 It is the fate of a woman Part v. Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. He is a little chimney and heated hot in a moment. A boy's will is the wind's will, Part vi. Part vi. His form was ponderous and his step was slow; There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate "I told you so." Ibid. Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, Lady Wentworth. Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, 1 See Stoughton, page 266. Plymouth Rock. Listen to voices in the upper air, Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. The Castle-builder. Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods. Every guilty deed Holds in itself the seed The Masque of Pandora. ii. Of retribution and undying pain. He speaketh not; and yet there lies viii. A conversation in his eyes. The Hanging of the Crane. Nothing that is can pause or stay; The moon will wax, the moon will wane, The mist and cloud will turn to rain, The rain to mist and cloud again, Thine was the prophet's vision, thine Insanity of noble minds, That never falters nor abates, But labors and endures and waits, Till all that it foresees it finds Or what it can not find creates. All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time. God sent his singers upon earth The long mysterious exodus of death. Keramos. Ibid. The Builders. The Singers. The Jewish Cemetery at Newport. Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems And all the rest are dead. Children. I know a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Trust her not, She is fooling thee. From the German (In Hyperion). She knew the life-long martyrdom, The weariness, the endless pain Of waiting for some one to come Who nevermore would come again. Vittoria Colonna. Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number. Hyperion. Book iv. Chap. viii. Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.1 There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time Kavanagh. In misery.2 Inferno. Canto v. Line 121. CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS. 1807–1886. It would be superfluous in me to point out to your Lordship that this is war. Despatch to Earl Russell. Sept. 5, 1863. 1 Quoted from Cotton's "To-morrow." See Genesis xxx. 3. Che ricordarsi del tempo felice See Chaucer, page 5. In omni adversitate fortunæ, infelicissimum genus est infortunii fuisse felicem (In every adversity of fortune, to have been happy is the most unhappy kind of misfortune). - - BOETHIUS: De Consolatione Philosophia, liber ii. This is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 1807-1892. So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore; The glory from his gray hairs gone To A. K. On receiving a Basket of Sea- Mosses. Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, But spare his "Highland Mary!" For of all sad words of tongue or pen, Lines on Burns. The saddest are these: "It might have been!" 1 Maud Muller. Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good. The hope of all who suffer, Brown of Ossawatomie. The Mantle of St. John de Matha. I know not where His islands lift The eternal Goodness. Yet sometimes glimpses on my sight, 1 FRANCIS BRET HARTE: Mrs. Judge Jenkins. It is, but had n't ought to be. The New Year. And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man; We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here; The Chapel of the Hermits. The still small voice in autumn's hush, Ibid. Better heresy of doctrine than heresy of heart. Mary Garvin. Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young. The Night is Mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling. Beauty seen is never lost. Ibid. A Dream of Summer. Sunset on the Bearcamp. God blesses still the generous thought, Each crisis brings its word and deed. The Beauty which old Greece or Rome We seemed to see our flag unfurled, For the last battle of the world, The Armageddon of the race. Nature speaks in symbols and in signs. Who never wins can rarely lose, Channing. The lost Occasion. To Rantoul. To Charles Sumner. To James T. Fields. 1 MRS. BROWNING: Aurora Leigh. Book vii. See page 659. |