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Updated: May 6, 2025
I pity the man who can read the opening lines of "The Traveler" without a misty something coming over his vision: "Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart untraveled fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain."
He played his own accompaniment, his fingers, stiffened though they were with hard work, ran lightly over the keys. Every person sat still to listen. Even Martha Perkins forgot to twirl her fingers and leaned forward. It was a simple little English ballad he sang: Where'er I wander over land or foam, There is a place so dear the heart calls home.
The feathered choir the woods with music fill; The tuneful swan in dying notes complains; The mourning nightingale repeats her strains, Timbrels and harps and human voices join, And in one concert all the sounds combine!" Then for the streamlets and flowerets "Where'er he treads, the earth her tribute pours, In gushing springs, or voluntary flowers.
Justice sprouteth, righteousness is here, Thy sin is forgot, thou hast naught to fear. Lo, the night is o'er, the day is breaking! Arise and see where'er thou turn'st thy face, How changed are both our time and place. And in Yiddish, too, an anonymous poet echoed the strain: Arise, my people, awake from thy dreaming, In foolishness be not immersed!
Where'er thy mace is seen, shrink back the bold, Thy javelin's flash all tremble to behold. Enchanted with the stories of thy fame, My fluttering heart responded to thy name; And whilst their magic influence I felt, In prayer for thee devotedly I knelt; And fervent vowed, thus powerful glory charms, No other spouse should bless my longing arms.
To Burton, with his great, warm, affectionate heart, Edward's affliction was an unceasing grief. In all his letters he enquires tenderly after his "dear brother," and could truly say, with the enemy of his boyhood, Oliver Goldsmith: "Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee: Still to my Brother turns."
Where'er thou art, He is; the eternal mind Acts through all places; is to none confined; Fills ocean, earth and air and all above, And through the universal mass does move. Dryden. Mrs.
Burch had not said so, but perhaps there were mosques and temples and minarets and date-palms. What stories they must know, those children born under Syrian skies! Then she was called upon to play "Jesus shall reign where'er the sun." The contribution box was passed and Mr. Burch prayed.
Continually, and not by our own choice, our minds are affected by the transactions around. Sensations occur "The eye, it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will." These itemized experiences thus pouring in upon our passive selves are found to vary endlessly also in degree, time, and locality.
'How fair those locks which now the light wind stirs! What eyes she has, and what a perfect arm! And yet methinks that little laugh of hers That little laugh is still her crowning charm. Where'er she passes, countryside or town, The streets make festa and the fields rejoice.
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