The Yale Literary Magazine, Volume 17

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Page 150 - The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay : Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way ; The first four acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; Time's noblest offspring is the last.
Page 174 - Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods - rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
Page 244 - For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
Page 150 - There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Page 174 - These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name — The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness.
Page 283 - And sounds that mingled laugh, — and shout, — and scream, — To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd ; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd : — And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail'd.
Page 277 - His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts That beat with anxious life at sunset there; How few survive, how few are beating now! All is deep silence, like the fearful calm That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause; Save when the frantic wail of widowed love Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan, With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay, Wrapt round its struggling powers.
Page 93 - Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Page 283 - Upon their day of massacre. She told Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, Whereon her father and five brothers slept Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave, When all the land a funeral mourning kept. And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave, By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave.
Page 150 - A benefaction of this kind seems to enlarge the very being of a man, extending it to distant places and to future times ; inasmuch as unseen countries and after ages may feel the effects of his bounty, while he himself reaps the reward in the blessed society of all those, who, having turned " many to righteousness, shine as the stars for ever and ever.

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