Great Throughts Treasury

"As much of heaven is visible as we have eyes to see."

"No life can be barren which hears the whisper of the wind in the branches, or the voice of the sea as it breaks upon the shore; and no soul can lack happiness looking up to the midnight stars."

"White sail upon the ocean verge, Just crimsoned by the setting sun, Thou hast thy port beyond the surge, Thy happy homeward course to run, And wingëd hope, with heart of fire, To gain the bliss of thy desire. I watch thee till the sombre sky Has darkly veiled the lucent plain; My thoughts, like homeless spirits, fly Behind thee o’er the glimmering main; Thy prow will kiss a golden strand, But they can never come to land. And if they could, the fanes are black Where once I bent the reverent knee; No shrine would send an answer back, No sacred altar blaze for me, No holy bell, with silver toll, Declare the ransom of my soul. ’T is equal darkness, here or there; For nothing that this world can give Could now the ravaged past repair, Or win the precious dead to live! Life’s crumbling ashes quench its flame, And every place is now the same. Thou idol of my constant heart, Thou child of perfect love and light, That sudden from my side didst part, And vanish in the sea of night, Through whatsoever tempests blow My weary soul with thine would go. Say, if thy spirit yet have speech, What port lies hid within the pall, What shore death’s gloomy billows reach, Or if they reach no shore at all! One word—one little word—to tell That thou art safe and all is well! The anchors of my earthly fate, As they were cast so must they cling; And naught is now to do but wait The sweet release that time will bring, When all these mortal moorings break, For one last voyage I must make. Say that across the shuddering dark— And whisper that the hour is near— Thy hand will guide my shattered bark Till mercy’s radiant coasts appear, Where I shall clasp thee to my breast, And know once more the name of rest. "

"The apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun. At the cottage-door the grandsire Sits pale in his easy-chair, While the gentle wind of twilight Plays with his silver hair. A woman is kneeling beside him; A fair young head is pressed, In the first wild passion of sorrow, Against his aged breast. And far from over the distance The faltering echoes come Of the flying blast of trumpet And the rattling roll of drum. And the grandsire speaks in a whisper: 'The end no man can see; But we give him to his country And we give our prayers to Thee.' The violets star the meadows, The rose-buds fringe the door, And over the grassy orchard The pink-white blossoms pour. But the grandsire's chair is empty, The cottage is dark and still; There's a nameless grave in the battle-field, And a new one under the hill. And a pallid, tearless woman By the cold hearth sits alone; And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone. "

"On The Verge - Out in the dark it throbs and glows-- The wide, wild sea, that no man knows! The wind is chill, the surge is white, And I must sail that sea to-night. You shall not sail! The breakers roar On many a mile of iron shore, The waves are livid in their wrath, And no man knows the ocean path. I must not bide for wind or wave; I must not heed, though tempest rave; My course is set, my hour is known, And I must front the dark, alone. Your eyes are wild, your face is pale,-- This is no night for ships to sail! The hungry wind is moaning low, The storm is up—you shall not go! ’T is not the moaning wind you hear-- It is a sound more dread and drear, A voice that calls across the tide, A voice that will not be denied. Your words are faint, your brow is cold, Your looks grow sudden gray and old, The lights burn dim, the casements shake,-- Ah, stay a little, for my sake! Too late! Too late! The vow you said This many a year is cold and dead, And through that darkness, grim and black, I shall but follow on its track. Remember all fair things and good That e’er were dreamed or understood, For they shall all the Past requite, So you but shun the sea to-night! No more of dreams! Nor let there be One tender thought of them or me,-- For on the way that I must wend I dread no harm and need no friend! The golden shafts of sunset fall Athwart the gray cathedral wall, While o’er its tombs of old renown The rose-leaves softly flutter down. No thought of holy things can save One relic now from Memory’s grave, And, be it sun or moon or star, The light that falls must follow far! I mind the ruined turrets bold, The ivy, flushed with sunset gold, The dew-drenched roses, in their sleep, That seemed to smile, and yet to weep. There ’ll be nor smile nor tear again; There ’ll be the end of every pain; There ’ll be no parting to deplore, Nor love nor sorrow any more. I see the sacred river’s flow, The barge in twilight drifting slow, While o’er the daisied meadow swells The music of the vesper bells. It is my knell—so far away! The night wears on—I must not stay! My canvas strains before the gale-- My cables part, and I must sail! Loud roars the sea! The dark has come: He does not move—his lips are dumb.-- Ah, God receive, on shores of light, The shattered ship that sails to-night! "

"Set your face to the sea, fond lover,- Cold in the darkness the sea-winds blow! Waves and clouds and the night will cover All your passion and all your woe: Sobbing waves, and the death within them, Sweet as the lips that once you prest- Pray that your hopeless heart may win them! Pray that your weary life may rest! Set your face to the stars, fond lover,- Calm, and silent, and bright, and true!- They will pity you, they will hover Softly over the deep for you. Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, Tears of heaven for you be spent, And sweet for you will the murmuring surges Pour the wail of their low lament. Set your face to the lonely spaces, Vast and gaunt, of the midnight sky! There, with the drifting cloud, your place is, There with the griefs that cannot die. Love is a mocking fiend's derision, Peace a phantom, and faith a snare! Make the hope of your heart a vision- Look to heaven, and find it there! "

"With a glimmer of plumes and a sparkle of lances, With blare of the trumpets and neigh of the steed, At morning they rode where the bright river glances, And the sweet summer wind ripples over the mead; The green sod beneath them was ermined with daisies, Smiling up to green boughs tossing wild in their glee, While a thousand glad hearts sang their honors and praises, While the Knights of the Mountain rode down to the sea. One rode 'neath the banner whose face was the fairest, Made royal with deeds that his manhood had done, And the halo of blessing fell richest and rarest On his armor that splintered the shafts of the sun; So moves o'er the waters the cygnet sedately, So waits the strong eagle to mount on the wing, Serene and puissant and simple and stately, So shines among princes the form of the King. With a gay bugle-note when the daylight's last glimmer Smites crimson and gold on the snow of his crest, At evening he rides through the shades growing dimmer, While the banners of sunset stream red in the West; His comrades of morning are scattered and parted, The clouds hanging low and the winds making moan, But smiling and dauntless and brave and true-hearted, All proudly he rides down the valley alone. Sweet gales of the woodland embrace and caress him, White wings of renown be his comfort and light, Pale dews of the starbeam encompass and bless him, With the peace and the balm and the glory of night; And, Oh! while he wends to the verge of that ocean, Where the years like a garland shall fall from his brow, May his glad heart exult in the tender devotion, The love that encircles and hallows him now. "

"Beneath the midnight moon of May, Through dusk on either hand, One sheet of silver spreads the bay, One crescent jet the land; The black ships mirrored in the stream Their ghostly tresses shake— When will the dead world cease to dream? When will the morning break? Beneath a night no longer May, Where only cold stars shine, One glimmering ocean spreads away This haunted life of mine; And, shattered on the frozen shore, My harp can never wake— When will this night of death be o’er? When will the morning break? "

"He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh: The sun’s gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky; To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. He keeps his state,—keep thou in thine, And shine upon me from afar! So shall I bask in light divine, That falls from love’s own guiding star; So shall thy eminence be high, And so my passion shall not die. But all my life shall reach its hands Of lofty longing toward thy face, And be as one who speechless stands In rapture at some perfect grace! My love, my hope, my all shall be To look to heaven and look to thee! Thy eyes shall be the heavenly lights; Thy voice the gentle summer breeze, What time it sways, on moonlit nights, The murmuring tops of leafy trees; And I shall touch thy beauteous form In June’s red roses, rich and warm. But thou thyself shalt come not down From that pure region far above; But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, Queen of my heart and queen of love! A monarch in thy realm complete, And I a monarch—at thy feet! "

"The Rubicon - One other bitter drop to drink, And then -- no more! One little pause upon the brink, And then -- go o'er! One sigh -- and then the lib'rant morn Of perfect day, When my free spirit, newly born, Will soar away! One pang -- and I shall rend the thrall Where grief abides, And generous Death will show me all That now he hides; And, lucid in that second birth, I shall discern What all the sages of the earth Have died to learn. One motion -- and the stream is crossed, So dark, so deep! And I shall triumph, or be lost In endless sleep. Then, onward! Whatso'er my fate, I shall not care! Nor Sin nor Sorrow, Love nor Hate, Can touch me there."

"And every grief that mortals share found pity in his tenderness."

"Fate is character."

"As often as I come back to his door, his love met me on the threshold, and his noble serenity gave me comfort and peace."

"Cities, unlike human creatures, may grow to be so old that at last they will become new."

"His love was like the liberal air,? embracing all, to cheer and bless; and every grief that mortals share found pity in his tenderness."

"Ambition has but one reward for all: a little power, a little transient fame, a grave to rest in, and a fading name!"

"Fierce for the right, he bore his part in strife with many a valiant foe; but Laughter winged his polished dart, and kindness tempered every blow."

"A newspaper, like a theatre, must mainly owe its continuance in life to the fact that it pleases many persons; and in order to please many persons it will, unconsciously perhaps, respond to their several tastes, reflect their various qualities, and reproduce their views. In a certain sense it is evolved out of the community that absorbs it, and, therefore, partaking of the character of the community, while it may retain many merits and virtues, it will display itself, as in some respects ignorant, trivial, narrow, and vulgar."

"Human, judgment is finite, and it ought always to be charitable."

"Life is arched with changing skies: rarely are they what they seem: children we of smiles and sighs -- much we know, but more we dream."

"Life, unexplored, is hope?s perpetual blaze?when past, one long, involved, and darksome maze: but, that some mighty power controls the whole, a secret intuition tells the soul. What after all remains, when life is sped, and man is gathered to the silent dead? Home to the narrow house, the long, long sleep, where pain is stilled, and sorrow doth not weep."

"Manners, the final and perfect flower of noble character."

"Mediocrity is less sensitive than genius, and therefore suffers less under nearly any possible exigency."

"The dramatist, like the poet, is born, not made. There must be inspiration back of all true and permanent art, dramatic or otherwise, and art is universal: there is nothing national about it. Its field is humanity, and it takes in all the world; nor does anything else afford the refuge that is provided by it from all troubles and all the vicissitudes of life."

"For I know that Death is a guest divine, who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine; and he cares for nothing! a king is he?come on, old fellow, and drink with me! With you I will drink to the solemn past, though the cup that I drain should be my last."

"Greatness, in any period and under any circumstances, has always been rare. It is of elemental birth, and is independent alike of its time and its circumstances."

"His was the heart that overmuch in human goodness puts its trust, and his the keen, satiric touch that shrivels falsehood into dust. Fierce for the right, he bore his part in strife with many a valiant foe; but laughter winged his polished dart, and kindness tempered every blow."

"The fault line of race is a paramount factor in keeping us from realizing our potential as a state and as a nation. The elimination of this line is what I think this institute is about. . . . Our task in the final analysis is to cause more of us to look in the mirror."

"The golden time of Long Ago."

"The inexhaustible talk that was the flow of a golden sea of eloquence and wisdom."

"The past is utterly indifferent to its worshipers."

"The stage? is the mirror of human life."

"There is a better thing than the great man who is always speaking, and that is the great man who only speaks when he has a great word to say."

"There is no creature so lonely as the dweller in the intellect."

"Though all the bards of earth were dead, and all their music passed away, what Nature wishes should be said she?ll find the rightful voice to say."

"True passion is not a wisp-light; it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the human heart to dust and ashes."

"Self-expression is the dominant necessity of human nature."

"When will the dead world cease to dream, when will the morning break?"

"White sail upon the ocean verge, just crimsoned by the setting sun, thou hast thy port beyond the surge, thy happy homeward course to run and winged hope, with heart of fire, to gain the bliss of thy desire."

"While our hearts are pure, our lives are happy and our peace is sure."