Opening the text

Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

General

Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

American literature

No inward pang, no yearning love
      Is lost to human hearts――
    No anguish that the spirit feels,
      When bright-winged Hope departs.
    Though in the mystery of life
      Discordant powers prevail;
    That life itself be weariness,
      And sympathy may fail:

    Yet all becomes a discipline,
      To lure us to the sky;
    And angels bear the good it brings
      With fostering care on high.
    Though human hearts may weary grow,
      And sink to toil-spent sleep,
    And we are left in solitude
      And agony to weep:

    Yet _they_ with ministering zeal
      The cup of healing bring,
    And bear our love and gratitude
      Away, on heavenward wing;
    And thus the inner life is wrought,
      The blending earth and heaven――
    The love more earnest in its glow
      Where much has been forgiven!

                   *       *       *       *       *


                              THE BROOK.

    WHITHER away, thou merry Brook,
      Whither away so fast,
    With dainty feet through the meadow green,
      And a smile as you hurry past?”
    The Brook leaped on in idle mirth,
      And dimpled with saucy glee;
    The daisy kissed in lovingness,
      And made with the willow free.

    I heard its laugh adown the glen,
      And over the rocky steep,
    Away where the old tree’s roots were bare
      In the waters dark and deep;
    The sunshine flashed upon its face,
      And played with flickering leaf――
    Well pleased to dally in its path,
      Though the tarrying were brief.

    “Now stay thy feet, oh restless one,
      Where droops the spreading tree,
    And let thy liquid voice reveal
      Thy story unto me.”
    The flashing pebbles lightly rung,
      As the gushing music fell,
    The chiming music of the brook,
      From out the woody dell.

    “My mountain home was bleak and high,
      A rugged spot and drear,
    With searching wind and raging storm,
      And moonlight cold and clear.
    I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
      For a fond and answering look
    But none were in that solitude
      To bless the little brook.

    “The blended hum of pleasant sounds
      Came up from the vale below,
    And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
      To lapse, and sing as I go;
    That gentle things, with loving eyes,
      Along my path should glide,
    And blossoms in their loveliness
      Come nestling to my side.

    “I leaped me down: my rainbow robe
      Hung shivering to the sight,
    And the thrill of freedom gave to me
      New impulse of delight.
    A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
      The bird and the swaying tree;
    The spear-like grass and blossoms start
      With joy at sight of me.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

American literature

No inward pang, no yearning love
      Is lost to human hearts――
    No anguish that the spirit feels,
      When bright-winged Hope departs.
    Though in the mystery of life
      Discordant powers prevail;
    That life itself be weariness,
      And sympathy may fail:

    Yet all becomes a discipline,
      To lure us to the sky;
    And angels bear the good it brings
      With fostering care on high.
    Though human hearts may weary grow,
      And sink to toil-spent sleep,
    And we are left in solitude
      And agony to weep:

    Yet _they_ with ministering zeal
      The cup of healing bring,
    And bear our love and gratitude
      Away, on heavenward wing;
    And thus the inner life is wrought,
      The blending earth and heaven――
    The love more earnest in its glow
      Where much has been forgiven!

                   *       *       *       *       *


                              THE BROOK.

    WHITHER away, thou merry Brook,
      Whither away so fast,
    With dainty feet through the meadow green,
      And a smile as you hurry past?”
    The Brook leaped on in idle mirth,
      And dimpled with saucy glee;
    The daisy kissed in lovingness,
      And made with the willow free.

    I heard its laugh adown the glen,
      And over the rocky steep,
    Away where the old tree’s roots were bare
      In the waters dark and deep;
    The sunshine flashed upon its face,
      And played with flickering leaf――
    Well pleased to dally in its path,
      Though the tarrying were brief.

    “Now stay thy feet, oh restless one,
      Where droops the spreading tree,
    And let thy liquid voice reveal
      Thy story unto me.”
    The flashing pebbles lightly rung,
      As the gushing music fell,
    The chiming music of the brook,
      From out the woody dell.

    “My mountain home was bleak and high,
      A rugged spot and drear,
    With searching wind and raging storm,
      And moonlight cold and clear.
    I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
      For a fond and answering look
    But none were in that solitude
      To bless the little brook.

    “The blended hum of pleasant sounds
      Came up from the vale below,
    And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
      To lapse, and sing as I go;
    That gentle things, with loving eyes,
      Along my path should glide,
    And blossoms in their loveliness
      Come nestling to my side.

    “I leaped me down: my rainbow robe
      Hung shivering to the sight,
    And the thrill of freedom gave to me
      New impulse of delight.
    A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
      The bird and the swaying tree;
    The spear-like grass and blossoms start
      With joy at sight of me.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

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