The Golden Gift: A Token for All Seasons

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Josiah Moody Fletcher
J. Buffum, 1847 - American poetry - 128 pages
 

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Page 28 - TELL me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream ! " For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; " Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Page 29 - Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor...
Page 110 - For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean...
Page 79 - These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
Page 29 - In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife...
Page 113 - THE ocean looketh up to heaven, As 'twere a living thing; The homage of its waves is given In ceaseless worshipping. They kneel upon the sloping sand, As bends the human knee, A beautiful and tireless band, The priesthood of the sea ! They pour...
Page 72 - Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea Still lies where he laid his houseless head; — But the pilgrim — where is he?
Page 72 - Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day, On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.
Page 28 - Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. 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 57 - Whilst skies are blue and bright, Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day; Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou — and from thy sleep Then wake to weep.

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