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These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Seem
Appointed
Struggle
Tides
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Struggling
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Stream
Ends
Mighty
Eddies
Seems
Streams
Wayward
Life
Tend
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Rolls

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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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