Графични страници
PDF файл


One Hundred Dollars will be paid to the persons who will answer the greatest number of Prize Quotations. For Rules and Regulations see another page of this magazine.

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, They stand upon the threshold of the new.

16. The Devil's most devilish when respectable.

17. All men are men-I would all minds were minds! Whereas 'tis just the many's mindless mass That most needs helping.

18. Were I in churchless solitude remaining,

Far from all voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find in flowers of God's ordaining Priests, sermons, shrines.

19. God will not love thee less because men love thee

I. 'Tis an old tale and often told.




Thrice blessed by the salutary change
Which day by day brings thoughts and feelings

Our gain is loss, we keep but what we give,
And only daily dying may we live.


He that runs may read.

Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.

Brevity is the soul of wit.

5. Time? What is Time but a fiction vain To him that o'erhears the Eternal strain.

A sordid office for a mind so brave:
So hard it is to be a woman's slave!

Whatever sceptic could inquire for,
For every why he had a wherefore.

8. Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is the music:-do I wake or sleep ?


They who know the most
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

One God, one law, one element,
And one

far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.

A touch, and bliss is turned to bale!

Life only keeps the sense of pain; The world holds naught save one white sail

Flying before the wind and rain.



Ye take no more the meaning than one takes
Measure of ocean by the cup that slakes
His thirst, from rillet running to the sea.

I 2.

O happiness! our being's end and aim!
Good, pleasure, ease, content, whate'er thy name,
That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die.

Yes, ye are made immortal on the day
Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh.

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky:
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.

15. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home.

Where are the visions of my infant nights,

And where the dreamy hopes of yester-morn?

Have I done anything since I was born
But watch, with eyelids closed, unreal sights ?

Friend, praise the new;

The old is fled;
Vivat Frou-Frou!
QUEEN ANNE is dead !

O, when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,

The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?

25. Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

In all the silent manliness of grief.

What makes a hero?-an heroic mind,
Expressed in action, in endurance proved;
And if there be pre-eminence of right,

Deceived through pain, well suffered, to the height
Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved,
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind.

November woods are bare and still;

November days are bright and good;
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;

Life's night rests feet which long have stood;

Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can “lay us down to sleep."

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,

Shrines to no code or creed confined-
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

32. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die;
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

35. Her every tone is music's own, like those of morn

ing birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in

her words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her

lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.

Whatever fate those forms may show,

Loved with a passion almost wild-
By day, by night, in joy or woe-

By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,
O God, protect my wife and child.

I worshiped her in such devout, strong wise,

That all the essence of my soul and brain Dwelt in the vestal violet of her eyes, Calm as the ghost-glance of some dead Elaine.

38. The old faiths light their candles all about, But burly Truth comes by and blows them out.

Thou art the voice that silence uttereth,
And of all sounds thou art the sense.

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,
Let them smile as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour when storms are gone!
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the dancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquility-
Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of morn!

O blessed habit of the lips and heart!

Not to be broken by the night of Death. A soul beyond seems how less far apart, If daily named to God with fervid breath.

43. O life! O time! O days divine!

O dreams that keep the soul astir!
The hour eternity was mine,
Looking at her!

All the golden names of olden
Women yet by men's love cherished,
All our dearest thoughts hold nearest,
Had they loved not all had perished.

Thus is it over all the earth!

That which we call the fairest,
And prize for its surpassing worth,

Is always rarest.


'Tis not for idle ease we pray,
But freedom for our task divine.

One brief space given our supreme endeavor:
Drink fast, the waters hasten to their fall.

Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof,
The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof
Of shallow waters.

In all our losses, all our gains,
In all our pleasures, all our pains,
The life of life is,--Love remains.

For each man deems his own sand-house secure
While life's wild waves are lulled; yet who can say,
If yet his faith's foundations do endure
It is not that no wind hath blown that way?


When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns ?

JEAN INGELOW, Gladys and Her Island.

God is the PERFECT POET, Who in creation acts his own conceptions.


We count For poets all who ever felt that such They were, and all who secretly have known That such they could not be; ay, moreover, all Who wind the robes of ideality About the bareness of their lives, and hang Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world.


There be “subtle" and "sweet” that are bad ones

to beat, There are “lives unlovely,” and “souls astray”; There is much to be done yet with “moody” and

“meet," And "ghastly" and "grimly,” and “gaunt," and

grey”; We should ever be “blithesome" but never be

"gay,” And “splendid” is suited to “summer" and "sea''; "Consummate,” they say, is enjoying its day, “Intense” is the adjective dearest to me!

ANDREW LANG, Ballades.

Jewels five words long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.


A verse may find him who a sermon flies,
And turn delight into a sacrifice.

GEORGE HERBERT, The Church Porch.

And once I knew a meditative rose
That never raised its head from bowing down;
Yet drew its inspiration from the stars.
It bloomed and faded here beside the road,
And, being a poet, wrote on empty air
With fragrance all the beauty of its soul.

HENRY ABBEY, A Morning Pastoral.

It is a sacred privilege to lofty natures given,
Even while in mortal guise, to walk midway 'twixt

earth and heaven, To own all gentle sympathies that bind the human


, Yet rise in pure and earnest aim, a brighter course

to trace. Creation teems with poetry — above, beneath,

aroundThought, fancy, feeling, lie enshrined in simplest

sight and sound; Mysterious meaning clothes whate'er we hear, or

touch, or view, And still the soul aspires to grasp the beautiful and

true! O Genius! thou hast high desires, and longings wild

and vain, Which never in this darkened world their bright

fulfillment gain! Mrs. JANE CROSS SIMPSON, The Longings of


--Doth song
To the whole world belong!
Is it not given wherever tears can fall,
Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow,
Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow,

A heritage to all?
Isa CRAIG-KNOx, Ode on a Centenary of Burns.

The earth is given To us: we reign by virtue of a sense Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, The ring of that old tune to which she spins. Humanity is given to us: we reign By virtue of a sense which lets us in To know its troubles ere they have been told, And take them home and lull them into rest With mournfulest music. Time is given to us, – Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside Have seen it well, have walked this empty world

All days are birthdays in the life,

The blessed life that poets live,
Songs keep their own sweet festivals,

And are the gifts, they come to give.
The only triumph over Time

That Time permits, is his who sings;
The poet Time himself defies

By secret help of Time's own wings. HELEN Hunt Jackson, To O. W. Holmes on his

70th Birthday.

He walks with God upon the hills!

And sees, each morn, the world arise New-bathed in light of Paradise.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
« ПредишнаНапред »