Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous

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Baltimore Publishing Company, 1888 - Authors, American - 456 pages
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Page 150 - But time is best measured by tears. Ah! not by the silver gray That creeps through the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, And not by the...
Page 231 - Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that...
Page 34 - Do you ask how I live in the Valley ? I weep — and I dream — and I pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, Ascendeth to God night and day. In...
Page 429 - Better than gold is a thinking mind That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore.
Page 60 - Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread, And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed...
Page xxxiii - I walk down the Valley of Silence,— Down the dim, voiceless valley alone ! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me save God's and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown...
Page 230 - tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.
Page 34 - mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar And I heard a voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley ? 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said : " Be mine." And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo —
Page 88 - There's a grandeur in graves, there's a glory in gloom! For out of the gloom future brightness is born, As after the night looms the sunrise of morn; And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown May yet form the footstool of Liberty's throne, And each single wreck in the war-path of might Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right!
Page 150 - That creeps thro' the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on. our way And not by the furrows, the fingers of care On forehead and face have made. Not so do we count our years ; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. For the young are oft-times old, Though their...

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