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
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass,
Art might obey but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d,
And the same power that rear’d the shrine
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Ever the fiery Pentacost
Girds with one flame the countless host,
Trances the heart through chanting choirs,
And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken,
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sybils told
In groves of oak or fanes of gold,
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost
I know what say the Fathers wise,――
The book itself before me lies,――
Old _Chrysostom_, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger _Golden Lips_ or mines,
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines;
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowled portrait dear.
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
* * * * *
TRAVELING.
I HAVE no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe,
for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man
is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the hope of finding
somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or to get
somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows
old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will
and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to
ruins.
Traveling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our first journeys the
discovery that place is nothing. At home I dream that at Naples, at
Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack
my trunk, embrace my friends, and embark on the sea, and at last wake
up at Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self,
unrelenting, identical that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the
palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions; but I
am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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