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The low desire, the hase design,
The revel of the treacherous wine,
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
All these must first be trampled down
In the bright fields of fair renown
We have not wings, we cannot soar:
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
The distant mountains, that uprear
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
The heights by great men reached and kept
But they, while their companions slept,
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
Nor deem the irrevocable Past
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
THE PHANTOM SHIP.
In Mather's Magnalia Christi,
Of the old colonial time,
That is here set down in rhyme.
A ship sailed from New Haven,
That filled her sails at parting,
Were heavy with good men's prayers.
"O Lord! if it be thy pleasure "— Thus prayed the old divine—
"To bury our friends in the ocean,
But Master Lamberton muttered,
"This ship is so crank and walty,
And the ships that came from England
Brought no tidings of this vessel,
This put the people to praying
That the Lord would let them hear
What in his greater wisdom
lie had done with friends so dear.
And at last their prayers were answered :—
It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset
Of a windy afternoon,
When, steadily steering landward,
A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,
Who sailed so long ago.
On she came, with a cloud of canvas.
Eight against the wind that blew. Until the eye could distinguish
The faces of the crew.
Then fell her straining topmasts.
And her sails were loosened and lifted,
And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one hy one;
As a sea-mist in the sun!
And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel,
And thus her tragic end.
And the pastor of the village
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,