| C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917. | | | | Mrs. Hale |
| | | | A blessing on the printer’s art!— |
| Books are the mentors of the heart. |
| 1 |
| | And evermore the waters worship God;— |
| And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres |
| While listening to the music of the waves! |
| 2 |
| | Ay, justice, who evades her? |
| Her scales reach every heart; |
| The action and the motive, |
| She weigheth each apart; |
| And none who swerve from right or truth |
| Can ’scape her penalty. |
| 3 |
| | Hail, Holy Day! the blessing from above |
| Brightens thy presence like a smile of love, |
| Smoothing, like oil upon a stormy sea, |
| The roughest waves of human destiny— |
| Cheering the good, and to the poor oppress’d |
| Bearing the promise of their heavenly rest. |
| 4 |
| | He fears not dying—’tis a deeper fear,— |
| The thunder-peal cries to his conscience—“Hear”! |
| The rushing winds from memory lift the veil, |
| And in each flash his sins, like spectres pale, |
| Freed, from their dark abode, his guilty breast, |
| Shriek in his startled ear—“Death is not rest”! |
| 5 |
| | His eloquence is classic in its style, |
| Not brilliant with explosive coruscations |
| Of heterogeneous thoughts, at random caught, |
| And scatter’d like a shower of shooting stars, |
| That end in darkness: no;—his noble mind |
| Is clear, and full, and stately, and serene. |
| His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps |
| Fix’d on the sun of Truth, and breathes his words |
| As easily as eagles cleave the air; |
| And never pauses till the height is won; |
| And all who listen follow where he leads. |
| 6 |
| | I’ve learned to judge of men by their own deeds; |
| I do not make the accident of birth |
| The standard of their merit. |
| 7 |
| | Like a mountain lone and bleak, |
| With its sky-encompass’d peak, |
| Thunder riven, |
| Lifting its forehead bare, |
| Through the cold and blighting air, |
| Up to heaven, |
| Is the soul that feels its woe, |
| And is nerv’d to bear the blow. |
| 8 |
| | Lone traveller through the fields of air, |
| What may thy presence here portend? |
| Art come to greet the planets fair, |
| As friend greets friend? |
| Whate’er thy purpose, thou dost teach |
| Some lessons to the humble soul; |
| Though far and dim thy pathway reach, |
| Yet still thy goal |
| Tends to the fountain of that light |
| From whence thy golden beams are won; |
| So should we turn, from earth’s dark night, |
| To God our sun. |
| 9 |
| | O wondrous power! how little understood,— |
| Entrusted to the mother’s mind alone, |
| To fashion genius, form the soul for good, |
| Inspire a West, or train a Washington! |
| 10 |
| | Oh! welcome to the wearied Earth |
| The Sabbath resting comes, |
| Gathering the sons of toil and care |
| Back to their peaceful homes; |
| And, like a portal to the skies, |
| Opens the House of God, |
| Where all who seek may come and learn |
| The way the Saviour trod. |
| But holier to the wanderer seems |
| The Sabbath on the deep, |
| When on, and on, in ceaseless course, |
| The toiling bark must keep, |
| And not a trace of man appears |
| Amid the wilderness |
| Of waters—then it comes like dove |
| Direct from heaven to bless. |
| 11 |
| | Rugged strength and radiant beauty— |
| These were one in nature’s plan; |
| Humble toil and heavenward duty— |
| These will form the perfect man. |
| 12 |
| | The burning soul, the burden’d mind, |
| In books alone companions find. |
| 13 |
| | Though youth be past, and beauty fled, |
| The constant heart its pledge redeems, |
| Like box, that guards the flowerless bed |
| And brighter from the contrast seems. |
| 14 |
| | We are all children in our strife to seize |
| Each petty pleasure, as it lures the sight, |
| And like the tall tree swaying in the breeze, |
| Our lofty wishes stoop their tow’ring flight, |
| Till when the prize is won it seems no more |
| Than gather’d shells from ocean’s countless store, |
| And ever those who would enjoyment gain |
| Must find it in the purpose they pursue. |
| 15 |
| | What matter though the scorn of fools be given, |
| If the path follow’d lead us on to heaven! |
| 16 |
| The temple of our purest thoughts is—silence! | 17 | | |
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