In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion And though, at times, impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Under a spreading chestnut-tree His hair is crisp and black and long; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children coming home from school, Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, 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, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Each morning sees some task begun, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, SUSPIRIA BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Doth give thee that, but that alone! Take them, O Grave! and let them lie Take them, O great Eternity! That bends the branches of thy tree, FREEDOM BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Are we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be That thou, North wind, that from thy mountains bringest Their spirit to our plains, and thou, blue sea, Who on our rocks thy wreaths of freedom flingest, As on an altar, can it be that ye Have wasted inspiration on dead ears, Dulled with the too familiar clank of chains? The people's heart is like a harp for years Its slow-incrusting spray: the stiffened chords We are not free: doth Freedom then consist In hearts wide open on the Godward side, Light footprints, leading morn-ward through the dew; And we must follow: swiftly runs she on, And, if our steps should slacken in despair, Half turns her face, half smiles through golden hair, Forever yielding, never wholly won: That is not love which pauses in the race Two close-linked names on fleeting sand to trace; Men gather but dry seeds of last year's flowers: |