The Writings of John Greenleaf Whittier: Old portraits and modern sketches: Personal sketches and tributes: Historical papers

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1889
 

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Page 93 - What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Page 198 - A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.
Page 184 - Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain...
Page 93 - twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new; Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we ! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers...
Page 97 - Tis madness to resist or blame The force of angry heaven's flame ; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old, Into another mould.
Page 326 - But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
Page 30 - I am somewhat too fond of these great mercies, but also because I should have often brought to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants, that my poor family was like to meet with, should I be taken from them, especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer my heart than all beside. Oh ! the thoughts of the hardship I thought my poor blind one might go under, would break my heart to pieces.
Page 184 - Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be. is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 2I Are strong with struggling.
Page 32 - This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss: The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect. From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight.
Page 30 - Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive; and let thy widows trust in me.

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