_The Return of the Sire de Nesle… A.D. 16 My towers at last! These rovings… Their thirst is slaked in larger d… The yearning infinite recoils,

Fear me, virgin whosoever Taking pride from love exempt, Fear me, slighted. Never, never Brave me, nor my fury tempt: Downy wings, but wroth they beat

The cavalry-camp lies on the slope Of what was late a vernal hill, But now like a pavement bare– An outpost in the perilous wilds Which ever are lone and still;

That night, in the mid-watch, when the old man—as his wont at intervals—stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went to his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fi...

_Commemorative of the Dissolution… May, 1865 What power disbands the Northern… After their steely play? The lonely watcher feels an awe

Going to it, by the usual way, is like stealing from a heated plain into some cool, deep glen, shady among harboring hills. Sick with the din and soiled with the mud of Fleet Street—whe...

To go up into a high stone tower is not only a very fine thing in itself, but the very best mode of gaining a comprehensive view of the region round about. It is all the better if this ...

Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill In prime of morn and May, Recall ye how McClellan’s men Here stood at bay? While deep within yon forest dim

O Pride of the days in prime of t… Now trebled in great renown, When before the ark of our holy ca… Fell Dagon down– Dagon foredoomed, who, armed and t…

Not Kenesaw high-arching, Nor Allatoona’s glen— Though there the graves lie parchi… Stayed Sherman’s miles of men; From charred Atlanta marching

It was during the more pleasant weather, that in due rotation with the other seamen my first mast-head came round. In most American whalemen the mast-heads are manned almost simultaneou...

In the south of Europe, nigh a once frescoed capital, now with dank mold cankering its bloom, central in a plain, stands what, at distance, seems the black mossed stump of some immeasur...

Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn. When on that shivering winter’s night, the Pequod thrust her vindicti...

There is a coal-black Angel With a thick Afric lip, And he dwells (like the hunted and… In a swamp where the green frogs d… But his face is against a City

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On on...