EIGHTH GRADEHYMN TO THE NIGHT.I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet’s rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best beloved Night!—Longfellow.THE BUILDERS.All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time;Some with massive deeds and great,Some with ornaments of rhyme.Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest.For the structure that we raise,Time is with materials filled;Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.Truly shape and fasten these;Leave no yawning gaps between;Think not, because no man sees,Such things will remain unseen.In the elder days of art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the gods see everywhere.Let us do our work as wellBoth the unseen and the seen;Make the house where God may dwellBeautiful, entire, and clean.Else our lives are incomplete,Standing in these walls of Time,Broken stairways, where the feetStumble as they seek to climb.Build to-day, then, strong and sure,With a firm and ample base;And ascending and secureShall to-morrow find its place.Thus alone can we attainTo those turrets, where the eyeSees the world as one vast plain,And one boundless reach of sky.—Longfellow.POLONIUS’ ADVICE TO LAERTES.Give thy thoughts no tongue,Nor any unproportioned thought his act.Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.The friends thou hast and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatched, unfledged comrade.BewareOf entrance to a quarrel; but being in,Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice;Take each man’s censure; but reserve thy judgment.Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;For the apparel oft proclaims the man;And they in France, of the best rank and station,Are of a most select and generous chief in that.Neither a borrower nor a lender be;For a loan oft loses both itself and friend.And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.This above all—to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou can’st not then be false to any man.—Shakespeare.THANATOPSIS.To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements.To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsBook-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdrawUnheeded by the living—and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employment, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,By those, who in their turn shall follow them.So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.—Bryant.THE AMERICAN FLAG.When Freedom, from her mountain height,Unfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then, from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.Majestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear’st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest trumpings loudAnd see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee ’tis givenTo guard the banner of the free;To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke;And bid its blending shine afar,Like rainbows on the clouds of war,The harbingers of victory!Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high!When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on,Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance;And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,And gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall,Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.Flag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o’er the brave,When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frightened waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside’s reeling rack;Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o’er his closing eye.Flag of the free heart’s hope and home,By angel hands to valor given,Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet,And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!—Joseph Rodman Drake.SPEECH AT THE DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG.November 18, 1863.Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicatea portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us, to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.—President Lincoln.TO A SKYLARK.Hail to thee, blithe spirit—Bird thou never wert—That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire:The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the setting sun,O’er which clouds are bright’ning,Thou dost float and run;Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.Keen as are the arrowsOf that silvery sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee!From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;Like a glow-worm golden,In a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower’d,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine;I have never heardPraise of lore or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphant chant,Match’d with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What object are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be;Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee;Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.Waking, or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not;Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.—Percy Bysshe Shelley.THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts—she moves—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean’s arms!And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray.Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!”How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o’er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,’Tis of the wave and not the rock;’Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!—Longfellow.RECESSIONAL.God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart,Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!Far-called our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!Amen.—Kipling.THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame.All common things, each day’s events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.The low desire, the base design,That makes another’s virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their root in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will.All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs.The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A path to higher destinies.Nor deem the irrevocable PastAs wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.—Longfellow.THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.35This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea.Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice thatsings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEYTo the Young People of Oakland, Cal.May 24, 1901“There is nothing better for the United States thanEducated Citizenship; and, my young friends, there never was a time in all our history when knowledge was so essential to success as now. Everything requires knowledge. What we want of the young people now is exact knowledge. You want to know whatever you undertake to do a little better than anybody else. And if you will do that, then there is nothing that is not within your reach.And what you want besides education isCharacter—Character! There is nothing that will serve a young man or an old man so well as good character. And did you ever think that it is just as easy to form a good habit as it is to form a bad one; and it is just as hard to break a good habit as it is to break a bad one? So get the good ones and keep them. WithEducationandCharacteryou will not only achieve individual success, but you will contribute largely to the progress of your country.”
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet’s rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best beloved Night!—Longfellow.
I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o’er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet’s rhymes.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet’s rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—From those deep cisterns flows.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best beloved Night!
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best beloved Night!
—Longfellow.
THE BUILDERS.All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time;Some with massive deeds and great,Some with ornaments of rhyme.Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest.For the structure that we raise,Time is with materials filled;Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.Truly shape and fasten these;Leave no yawning gaps between;Think not, because no man sees,Such things will remain unseen.In the elder days of art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the gods see everywhere.Let us do our work as wellBoth the unseen and the seen;Make the house where God may dwellBeautiful, entire, and clean.Else our lives are incomplete,Standing in these walls of Time,Broken stairways, where the feetStumble as they seek to climb.Build to-day, then, strong and sure,With a firm and ample base;And ascending and secureShall to-morrow find its place.Thus alone can we attainTo those turrets, where the eyeSees the world as one vast plain,And one boundless reach of sky.—Longfellow.
All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time;Some with massive deeds and great,Some with ornaments of rhyme.
All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest.
Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,Time is with materials filled;Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fasten these;Leave no yawning gaps between;Think not, because no man sees,Such things will remain unseen.
Truly shape and fasten these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.
In the elder days of art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the gods see everywhere.
In the elder days of art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as wellBoth the unseen and the seen;Make the house where God may dwellBeautiful, entire, and clean.
Let us do our work as well
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house where God may dwell
Beautiful, entire, and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete,Standing in these walls of Time,Broken stairways, where the feetStumble as they seek to climb.
Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,With a firm and ample base;And ascending and secureShall to-morrow find its place.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attainTo those turrets, where the eyeSees the world as one vast plain,And one boundless reach of sky.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.
—Longfellow.
POLONIUS’ ADVICE TO LAERTES.Give thy thoughts no tongue,Nor any unproportioned thought his act.Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.The friends thou hast and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatched, unfledged comrade.BewareOf entrance to a quarrel; but being in,Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice;Take each man’s censure; but reserve thy judgment.Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;For the apparel oft proclaims the man;And they in France, of the best rank and station,Are of a most select and generous chief in that.Neither a borrower nor a lender be;For a loan oft loses both itself and friend.And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.This above all—to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou can’st not then be false to any man.—Shakespeare.
Give thy thoughts no tongue,Nor any unproportioned thought his act.Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.The friends thou hast and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatched, unfledged comrade.BewareOf entrance to a quarrel; but being in,Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice;Take each man’s censure; but reserve thy judgment.Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;For the apparel oft proclaims the man;And they in France, of the best rank and station,Are of a most select and generous chief in that.Neither a borrower nor a lender be;For a loan oft loses both itself and friend.And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.This above all—to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou can’st not then be false to any man.
Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade.
Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice;
Take each man’s censure; but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;
And they in France, of the best rank and station,
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For a loan oft loses both itself and friend.
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all—to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou can’st not then be false to any man.
—Shakespeare.
THANATOPSIS.To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements.To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsBook-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdrawUnheeded by the living—and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employment, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,By those, who in their turn shall follow them.So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.—Bryant.
To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements.To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsBook-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdrawUnheeded by the living—and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employment, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,By those, who in their turn shall follow them.So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements.
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Book-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living—and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employment, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
—Bryant.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.When Freedom, from her mountain height,Unfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then, from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.Majestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear’st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest trumpings loudAnd see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee ’tis givenTo guard the banner of the free;To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke;And bid its blending shine afar,Like rainbows on the clouds of war,The harbingers of victory!Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high!When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on,Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance;And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,And gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall,Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.Flag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o’er the brave,When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frightened waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside’s reeling rack;Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o’er his closing eye.Flag of the free heart’s hope and home,By angel hands to valor given,Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet,And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!—Joseph Rodman Drake.
When Freedom, from her mountain height,Unfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then, from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.
When Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear’st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest trumpings loudAnd see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee ’tis givenTo guard the banner of the free;To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke;And bid its blending shine afar,Like rainbows on the clouds of war,The harbingers of victory!
Majestic monarch of the cloud!
Who rear’st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumpings loud
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—
Child of the sun! to thee ’tis given
To guard the banner of the free;
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke;
And bid its blending shine afar,
Like rainbows on the clouds of war,
The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high!When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on,Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance;And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,And gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall,Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on,
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn,
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance;
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall,
Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o’er the brave,When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frightened waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside’s reeling rack;Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o’er his closing eye.
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave,
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frightened waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside’s reeling rack;
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o’er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart’s hope and home,By angel hands to valor given,Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet,And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!
Flag of the free heart’s hope and home,
By angel hands to valor given,
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!
—Joseph Rodman Drake.
SPEECH AT THE DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG.November 18, 1863.Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicatea portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us, to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.—President Lincoln.
November 18, 1863.
Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicatea portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us, to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
—President Lincoln.
TO A SKYLARK.Hail to thee, blithe spirit—Bird thou never wert—That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire:The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the setting sun,O’er which clouds are bright’ning,Thou dost float and run;Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.Keen as are the arrowsOf that silvery sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee!From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;Like a glow-worm golden,In a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower’d,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine;I have never heardPraise of lore or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphant chant,Match’d with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What object are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be;Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee;Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.Waking, or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not;Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit—Bird thou never wert—That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit—
Bird thou never wert—
That from heaven, or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire:The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire:
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightningOf the setting sun,O’er which clouds are bright’ning,Thou dost float and run;Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
In the golden lightning
Of the setting sun,
O’er which clouds are bright’ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silvery sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silvery sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee!From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee!
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;
Like a glow-worm golden,In a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;
Like a glow-worm golden,
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;
Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower’d,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower’d,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine;I have never heardPraise of lore or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of lore or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphant chant,Match’d with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphant chant,
Match’d with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt—
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What object are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
What object are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be;Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee;Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.
With thy clear, keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee;
Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.
Waking, or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
Waking, or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not;Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate, and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts—she moves—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean’s arms!And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray.Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!”How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o’er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,’Tis of the wave and not the rock;’Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!—Longfellow.
Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts—she moves—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean’s arms!
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!
She starts—she moves—she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean’s arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray.Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!”
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray.
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms!”
How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
How beautiful she is! How fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o’er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!
Sail forth into the sea of life,
O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
And safe from all adversity
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness and love and trust
Prevail o’er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,’Tis of the wave and not the rock;’Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
’Tis of the wave and not the rock;
’Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,
Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
—Longfellow.
RECESSIONAL.God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart,Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!Far-called our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!Amen.—Kipling.
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart,Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—
The captains and the kings depart,
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!Amen.
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!
Amen.
—Kipling.
THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame.All common things, each day’s events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.The low desire, the base design,That makes another’s virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their root in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will.All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs.The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A path to higher destinies.Nor deem the irrevocable PastAs wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.—Longfellow.
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame.
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame.
All common things, each day’s events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.
All common things, each day’s events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,That makes another’s virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;
The low desire, the base design,
That makes another’s virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their root in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will.
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will.
All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.
All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.
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.
Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A path to higher destinies.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable PastAs wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
—Longfellow.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.35This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea.Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice thatsings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,—
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea.Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice thatsings:—
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea.
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice thatsings:—
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEYTo the Young People of Oakland, Cal.May 24, 1901“There is nothing better for the United States thanEducated Citizenship; and, my young friends, there never was a time in all our history when knowledge was so essential to success as now. Everything requires knowledge. What we want of the young people now is exact knowledge. You want to know whatever you undertake to do a little better than anybody else. And if you will do that, then there is nothing that is not within your reach.And what you want besides education isCharacter—Character! There is nothing that will serve a young man or an old man so well as good character. And did you ever think that it is just as easy to form a good habit as it is to form a bad one; and it is just as hard to break a good habit as it is to break a bad one? So get the good ones and keep them. WithEducationandCharacteryou will not only achieve individual success, but you will contribute largely to the progress of your country.”
To the Young People of Oakland, Cal.May 24, 1901
“There is nothing better for the United States thanEducated Citizenship; and, my young friends, there never was a time in all our history when knowledge was so essential to success as now. Everything requires knowledge. What we want of the young people now is exact knowledge. You want to know whatever you undertake to do a little better than anybody else. And if you will do that, then there is nothing that is not within your reach.
And what you want besides education isCharacter—Character! There is nothing that will serve a young man or an old man so well as good character. And did you ever think that it is just as easy to form a good habit as it is to form a bad one; and it is just as hard to break a good habit as it is to break a bad one? So get the good ones and keep them. WithEducationandCharacteryou will not only achieve individual success, but you will contribute largely to the progress of your country.”