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Go forth, under the open sky, and list
Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Ibid.
The stormy March has come at last,
With wind and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast
That through the snowy valley flies.
The groves were God's first temples.
But ’neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
The melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,
The Death of the Flowers. Truth crushed to earth shall rise again:
The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
THE hand that rounded Peter's dome,
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome.
He builded better than he knew.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
Hymn. At the completion of the Concord Monument.
altars and your fires; Strike-for the green graves of your sires ; God, and your native land !
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet song, and dance, and wine;
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.
They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why ; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty.
Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.
Curiosity. Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.
Behold ! in Liberty's unclouded blaze
Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors' spite;
And lap me in delight.
To my Cigar.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
· Life is but an empty dream !'
A Psalm of Life. Art is long, and Time is fleeting.*
* Life is short, and art is long.
Hippocrates. (Aphorism i.)
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
A Psalm of Life.
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints on the sands of time.
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong. The Light of Stars.
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
It is not always May.
O suffering, sad humanity!
The Goblet of Life. There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there !
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.