The world is full of Poetry,-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,
And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled.
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man, in one eternal hymn,—
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.
Jas. G. Percival, Conn., 1795-1856.
That have lost nothing; they are poorer far
Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget.
For life is one, and in its warp and woof
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet
When there are somber colors. It is true
That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold,
We would not have it tarnish; let us turn
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web,
And when it shineth sometimes, we shall know
That memory is in possession.
Jean Ingelor, England, 1830-.
The twilight deepened round us. Still and black
The great woods climbed the mountain at our back:
And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day
On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay,
The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung.
With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred:
The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard,
The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well,
The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell;
Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate
Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight
Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung,
The welcome sound of supper-call to hear;
And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
J. G. Whittier, Mass., 1808.
24. Knowledge and Wisdom.
Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,
Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Wm. Cowper, England, 1731-1800.
Ah! when did Wisdom covet length of days,
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise ?
No: Wisdom views, with an indifferent eye,
All finite joys, all blessings born to die;
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compelled to starve at an unreal feast;
A spark which upward tends by nature's force,
A stream diverted from its parent source;
A drop dissevered from the boundless sea;
A moment parted from eternity;
A pilgrim panting for a rest to come,
An exile anxious for his native home.
Hannah More, England, 1745-1833.
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands despatch:
How much is to be done! My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss !
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Edw. Young, England, 1684-1765.
27. The Gain of Adversity.
A lily said to a threatening cloud
That in sternest garb arrayed him,
"You have taken my lord, the Sun, away
And I know not where you have laid him."
It folded its leaves, and trembled sore
As the hours of darkness pressed it,
But at morn, like a bird, in beauty shone
For with pearls the dews had dressed it.
Then it felt ashamed of its fretful thought,
And fain in the dust would hide it,
For the night of weeping had jewels brought,
Which the pride of day denied it.
Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, Conn., 1791-1865.
28. Duty and Right.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown,-yet faint thou not,
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among her worshipers.
W. C. Bryant, Mass., 1794
There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives
Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves,—
When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose,
Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose,
And thus when the rainbow has passed from the sky,
The thoughts it awakes are too deep to pass by;
It leaves my full soul, like the wing of a dove,
All fluttering with pleasure and fluttering with love.
I know that each moment of rapture or pain
But shortens the links in life's mystical chain;
I know that my form, like the bow from the wave,
Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave;
Yet, oh! when Death's shadows my bosom encloud,
When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud,
May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold
In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.
Amelia B. Welby, Maryland, 1821-1852.
30. Earnest Workers.
The busy world shoves angrily aside
The man who stands with arms akimbo set,
Until occasion tells him what to do;
And he who waits to have his task marked out,
Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.
Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds:
Reason and Government, like two broad seas,
Yearn for each other with outstretched arms
Across their narrow isthmus of the throne,
And roll their white surf higher every day.
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