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Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim, And wave them high across the abysmal black, Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice.
MM mo.9 1847.
ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FREEH*
'Tis said that in the Holy Land
The angels of the place have blessed
The pilgrim's bed of desert sand,
That down the hush of Syrian skies
Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings
The song whose holy symphonies
Till starting from his sandy bed,
The halo of an angel's head
So through the shadows of my way
So at the weary close of day
That pilgrim pressing to his goal
Yet all fair things within his soul
The graceful palm-tree by the well,
Seen on the far horizon's rim; The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle,
Bent timidly on him;
Each pictured saint, whose golden hair
Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom;
Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair,
And thus each tint or shade which falls
Along my pilgrim path recalls
Of one, in sun and shade the same,
Whatever by that holy name
Not blind to faults and follies, thou
Hast never failed the good to see, Nor judged by one unseemly bough
The upward-struggling tree.
These light leaves at thy feet I lay—
Poor common thoughts on common things,
Which time is shaking, day by day,
Chance shootings from a frail life-tree,
Their good was partly learned of thee,
That tree still clasps the kindly mould,
And weaving its pale green with.gold,
There still the morning zephyrs play,
And mossy trunk and fading spray
Yet, even in genial sun and rain,
Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade;
The wanderer on its lonely plain
Oh, friend beloved, whose curious skill
With warm, glad summer thoughts to fill
Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring
May well defy the wintry cold, Until, in Heaven's eternal spring,
Life's fairer ones unfold.
Who, looking backward from his manhood's prince.
And, through the shade
From his loved dead?
Who bears no trace of passion's evil force V
Who does not cast
Regretful of the Past?
Alas!—the evil which we fain would shun
Our strength to-day
Are we alway.
Yet, who, thus looking backward o'er his years,
If he hath been
If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in
If he hath lent
Or home, hath bent.
He has not lived in vain, and while he gives
With thankful heart;
Can henceforth part.
I Shall not soon forget that sight:
A hazy warmth, a dreamy light,
It was a simple print I saw,
Yet while I gazed a sense of awe
A simple print:—the graceful flow
And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow
Yet through its sweet and calm repose
I saw the inward spirit shine; It was as if before me rose
The white veil of a shrine.
As if, as Gothland's sage has told,
Dissevered from its frame and mould,
Was it the lifting of that eye,
The waving of that pictured hand?
Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky,
The narrow room had vanished,—space
Through which all hues and shapes of grace
Around the mighty master came
The marvels which his pencil wrought,
Those miracles of power whose fame
There drooped thy more than mortal face,
Enfolding in one dear embrace