« VorigeDoorgaan »
Swas Evar this! Euch houer that came
Still inerenitting, hought
"T is much immortal beauty to admire,
But must not with too near a love adore;
THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
We are spirits clad in veils ;
Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.
What is social company
But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?
Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught.
Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth,
We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.
PRELUDE TO THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT.
PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
Or where the denser grove receives
The shadows hardly move.
A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feelings of a dream,
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings
O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot die,
Like ships upon the sea;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage
And, loving still these quaint old themes,
I feel the freshness of the streams
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE INNER VISION. MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path there be or none, While a fair region round the Traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon;
“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long." 'T is not with me exactly so ;
But 't is so in the song.
Would muster many a score ; And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.
Theseus. More strange than true: I never may
believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact : One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, That is, the madman ; the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt ; The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to
heaven ; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.
What first I want is daily bread
And canvas-backs — and wine -
Before me, when I dine.
My appetite to quell;
To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at princely cost,
Is elegant attire :
And silks for summer's fire,
My bosom's front to deck, And diamond rings my hands to grace,
And rubies for my neck.
CONTENTMENT. I Weign not fortune's frown or smile ;
I joy not much in earthly joys ; I seek not state, I reck not style ;
I am not fond of fancy's toys :
I want (who does not want?) a wife,
Affectionate and fair ;
And all its joys to share.
Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Of firm, yet placid mind, With all my faults to love me still
With sentiment refined.
And close at hand is such a one,
Plain food is quite enough for me ;
Three courses are as good as ten; If nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice; My choice would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land ;
Give me a mortgage here and there, Some good bank-stock, -- some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share, -
Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names ; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,
But only near St. James ; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.
And as Time's car incessant runs,
And Fortune fills my store,
From eight to half a score.
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
The boys all wise and brave.
To cheer the adverse hour;
Nor bend the knee to power,
My inmost soul to see ;
For him as his for me.
The ensigns of command ;
To rule my native land.
But from my country's will,
Her cup of bliss to fill.
To follow me behind,
The friend of human-kind,
Exulting may proclaim
Their blessings on my name.
I cannot want them long,
And earthly bliss — a song.
Is, when beneath the sod,
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. WASHINGTON, August 31, 1841.
Jewels are bawbles ; 't is a sin
To care for such unfruitful things ; One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so large, in rings, – A ruby, and a pearl or so, Will do for me;
I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire ;
(Good heavy silks are never dear ;) I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait, – two, forty-five,
Suits me; I do not care ;-
Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four, — I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more, (A landscape, – foreground gollen dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt.)
"Man wants but little here below."
LITTLE I ask ; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;
Of books but few, — some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor ;
Some little luxury there