Quotes
Quotes - Hemans
The stately homes of England,--
How beautiful they stand,
Amid their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine,
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine.
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod:
They have left unstained what there they found,--
Freedom to worship God.
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.
They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee:
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount and stream and sea.
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth!
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
In the busy haunts of men.
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
Oh, call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone:
The summer comes with flower and bee,--
Where is my brother gone?
I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung his tassels forth.
I had a hat. It was not all a hat,--
Part of the brim was gone:
Yet still I wore it on.
Strength is born in the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; not amid joy.
The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd.
In the busy haunts of men.
What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?
There shall be no more snow No weary noontide heat, So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our Fathers trod: To the quiet of the skies: To the Sabbath of our God.
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!
The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. . . . . The flames roll'd on--he would not go Without his Father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land.
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour, Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!
