The poetical works of Henry W. Longfellow, ed. with a critical memoir by W.M. Rossetti, illustr. by W. Lawson. Illustr. by T. Seccombe

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367. oldal - Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living...
427. oldal - His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
438. oldal - 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...
463. oldal - The heights by great men reached and kept Were not. attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.
367. oldal - Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, - act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still...
427. oldal - He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach ; He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice Singing in paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies, And with his hard rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
398. oldal - All are scattered, now, and fled, — Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah! when shall they all meet again?
298. oldal - If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 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.
172. oldal - Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of Winter; Showed the broad, white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees. Heard the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder; "Minne-wawa!
494. oldal - I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on ez:rth, good- will to men!

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