« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Ask for more than He has done?
When was ever his right hand
Over any time or land
How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days,
When the cruel rod of war
Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise!
Freer breathe the universe
As it rolls its heavy curse
It is done!
forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice,
It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth!
Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad!
With a sound of broken chains
Tell the nations that He reigns IVho alone is Lord and God!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born in 1809. A Physician, and Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. Well known as author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table and other prose writings, as well as of poems, humorous, critical, or occasional, for the most part).
THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE.
Oh! in the hour when I shall feel
THE LAST READER. I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,
And read my own sweet songs;
Each humble line prolongs
That some dear girl has given ;
As sunset-clouds in heaven,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
The ringlets of his child;
Around these yellow leaves,
Oblivion's insect weaves ?
On these neglected songs,
My opening bosom wrongs;
Long years have washed away,
Is nought but common clay;
My lyre no more is known,
In silence and alone,
My youth in its decline,
Of thoughts that once were mine,And give the worm my little store When the last reader reads no more!
Is far, far sweeter unto me
Or breathe along the sea !
And nought but empty air I see;
It seemeth unto me
The lily hath the softest leaf
That ever western breeze hath fanned,
So I may take thy hand;
That seem right fair, below, above;
Is half so sweet as love ;-
[Born in 1809. Beginning as a school-teacher, he made a wan. dering journey about the United States ; became a journalist ; and ultimately a barrister. A volume of Hymns to the Gods, written at an early period, is one of his most noted poetical works].
TO SOMNUS. O thou the leaden-eyed! with drooping lid Hanging upon thy sight, and eye half-hid By matted hair: that, with a constant train Of empty dreams, all shadowless and vain As the dim wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave With poppies at the mouth, which night-winds wave, Sending their breathings downward-on thy bed, Thine only throne, with darkness overspread, And curtains black as are the eyes of Night: Thou, who dost come at time of waning light, And sleep among the woods, where Night doth hide And tremble at the sun, and shadows glide
1 An American friend whom I have consulted in various matters connected with this book believes (without however vouching for it as a certainty) that Mr. Pike was a General in the Confederate army during the Civil War, and was killed in the course of that struggle.