#AmericanWriters
1640-1890. O river winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways The century-woven veil we raise.
The Persian’s flowery gifts, the… Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more; The woven wreaths of oak and pine Are dust along the Isthmian shore… But beauty hath its homage still,
Some die too late and some too soo… At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight. Th… Whom the rich heavens did so endow With eyes of power and Jove’s own…
THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS. WE cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the Eas… The homestead of the free!
O painter of the fruits and flower… We own wise design, Where these human hands of ours May share work of Thine! Apart from Thee we plant in vain
WITH COPIES OF THE A… Friend of mine! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past; Where, like shadows flitting fast, Fact and fancy, thought and theme,
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C… Fold her, O Father, in Thine arm… And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and Thee.
GEORGE FULLER Haunted of Beauty, like the marve… Who sang Saint Agnes’ Eve! How p… Her shapes took color in thy homes… How on thy canvas even her dreams…
How has New England’s romance fle… Even as a vision of the morning! Its rites foredone, its guardians… Its priestesses, bereft of dread, Waking the veriest urchin’s scorni…
Thou dwellest not, O Lord of all In temples which thy children rais… Our work to thine is mean and smal… And brief to thy eternal days. Forgive the weakness and the pride…
God’s love and peace be with thee,… Soe’er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair… Whether through city casements com… Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms…
'TIS over, Moses! All is lost! I hear the bells a-ringing; Of Pharaoh and his Red Sea host I hear the Free-Wills singing.* We’re routed, Moses, horse and fo…
Ho! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guil… Stand forth once more together! Call out again your long array,
A CHRISTIAN! going, gone! Who bids for God’s own image? for… Which that poor victim of the mark… Hath in her suffering won? My God! can such things be?
The fourteen centuries fall away Between us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day, The immemorial quest and old compl… No outward sign to us is given,—