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Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To nature's teachings.


Sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Ibid.

The stormy March has come at last,

With wind and clouds and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.


The groves were God's first temples.

Forest Hymn.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

The melancholy days are come,

The saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.

Autumn Woods.

The Death of the Flowers.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again :
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

The Battle-Field.

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And fired the shot heard round the world.

Hymn. At the completion of the Concord Monument.


STRIKE for your altars and your fires;

Strike for the green graves of your sires;

God, and your native land!

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Marco Bozzaris.

Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;

Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible-the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;

And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Marco Bozzaris.

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On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,

Shrines to no code or creed confined,The Delphian vales, the Palestines,

The Meccas of the mind.


They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why ;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty. Connecticut.

* Cf. ROGERS. Jacqueline.




LO, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,

Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.


Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.

Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze
We lift our heads, a race of other days.


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'Life is but an empty dream !'

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
A Psalm of Life.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.*

*Life is short, and art is long.

HIPPOCRATES. (Aphorismi.)

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For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest !
It is not always May.

Standing, with reluctant feet,

Where the brook and river meet,

Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Maidenhood.

O suffering, sad humanity!
O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried!

The Goblet of Life.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.



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