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We have not wings, we cannot soar;
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were toiling upward in the night. 11 %
Standing on what too long we bore
A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past,
To something nobler we attain.
THE PHANTOM SHIP.
IN Mather's Magnalia Christi,
That is here set down in rhyme.
A ship sailed from New Haven,
Were heavy with good men's prayers.
“O Lord! if it be thy pleasure” —
Take them, for they are thine!”
But Master Lamberton muttered,
I fear our grave she will bel”
And the ships that came from England,
Brought no tidings of this vessel
This put the people to praying
He had done with friends so dear.
And at last their prayers were answered: —
Of a windy afternoon,
When, steadily steering landward,
And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,
On she came, with a cloud of canvas,
The faces of the crew.
Then fell her straining topmasts,
And blown away like clouds.