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Updated: May 31, 2025
For lo! the age's pearl, the darling of his folk, The mould of every grace, was singled out to die! I call him back: "Would God thine hour had never come!" What while the case takes speech and doth forestall my cry. Which is the speediest way to win to thee, my son! My soul had paid the price, if that thy life might buy. The sun could not compare with him, for lo! it sets.
There he is the gentle recluse, dreaming over old books, old furniture, old prints, old plays and play-bills; living always in the past, loving in the town secluded byways like the Temple, or the libraries of Oxford Colleges, and in the country quiet and shaded lanes, none of the age's enthusiasm for mountains in his soul.
We know the room in which he lives, the windows from which he gazes, the moments which come upon him there in the silence of the lamp. For he has captured in his music what is distinguished in the age's delight and tragedy.
Though was I lost abroad, Thou west to me * Strongest support which vouchsafed victory: Thou gav'st me wealth and reign and goodly gifts, * And slungest con quering sword of valiancy: Thou mad'st me blest beneath Thy kingly shade, * Engraced with generous boons dealt fain and free: Thou savedst *from every fear I feared, by aid * Of my Wazir, the Age's noblest he!
We have often imaged to ourselves the rapture with which a poet, of proper proportions and due culture, if writing in his age's spirit, would be received in an age when the works of Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Keats, are so widely read and thoroughly appreciated. He would find it "all ear." Great things, however, must be done by the man who cherishes this high ambition.
His life is a perpetual satire, and he is still girding the age's vanity, when this very anger shews he too much esteems it. He is much displeased to see men merry, and wonders what they can find to laugh at. He never draws his own lips higher than a smile, and frowns wrinkle him before forty.
Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and honour; There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee through The dance of youth, and the turmoil of manhood, Yet leave enough for age's chimney-corner; But an thou grasp to it, farewell ambition, Farewell each hope of bettering thy condition, And raising thy low rank above the churls That till the earth for bread.
Here, under a double coffin lid, rests an age's holiest saint in the North, Vadstene cloister's diadem and lustre St. Bridget. On the night she was born, says the legend, there appeared a beaming cloud in the heavens, and on it stood a majestic virgin, who said: "Of Birger is born a daughter whose admirable voice shall be heard over the whole world."
Those who criticise the United States because, with the experience of all the ages behind her, she is in some points vastly defective as compared with the nations of Europe are as much mistaken as those who look to her for the fresh ingenuousness of youth unmarred by any trace of age's weakness. It is simply inevitable that she should share the vices as well as the virtues of both. Mr.
Her gain is honour and desert her mean, fortune her scorn and folly her hate; wisdom is her guide and conquest her grace, clemency her praise and humility her glory: she is youth's ornament and age's honour, nature's blessing and virtue's love. Her life is resolution and her love victory, her triumph truth, and her fame virtue.
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