This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1847 Excerpt: ...Streams lo the listening hours Talk in earth's secret cells; Over the gray rihh'd sand Breathe Ocean's frothy lips; Over the still lake's strand The wild flower toward it dips, WHAT IS SOLITUDE? Pluming the mountain's crest Life tcsses in its pines, Coursing the desert's hreast Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave- ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1847 Excerpt: ...Streams lo the listening hours Talk in earth's secret cells; Over the gray rihh'd sand Breathe Ocean's frothy lips; Over the still lake's strand The wild flower toward it dips, WHAT IS SOLITUDE? Pluming the mountain's crest Life tcsses in its pines, Coursing the desert's hreast Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave--if thou wouldst he lonely--Leave Nature for the crowd; Seek there for one--one ouly With kindred mind endow'd There--as with Nature er't Closely thou wouldst commune--The deep soul-music nursed In either heart, attune Heart-wearied thou wilt own. Vaiuly that phantom weo'd, That thou at last hast known What is true Solitude PRIMEVAL WOODS. Tis even here, not less than in the crowd. Here, where yon vault in formal sweep seems piled Upon the pines, monotonously proud, Fit dome for fane, within whose hoary veil No rihald voice an echo hath defiled--Where Silence seeim articolate; no-stealing Like a low anthem's heavenward wail: --Oppressive on my hosom weighs the feeling Of thoughts that language caunot shape aloud; For song too solemn, and for prayer too wild, --Thoughts, which heneath no human power could quail, For lack of utterance, in ahasemeot how'd.--The cavern'd waves that struggle for revealing, Upon whose idle foam alone God's light hath smiled. II. Ere long thine every stream shall find a tongue, Land of the Many Waters Rut the sound Of human music, these wild hills among. Hath no one save the Indian mother flung O Its spell of tenderness 1 Oh, o'er this ground So redolent of Beauty, hath there play'd no hreath Of human poesy--none heside the word Of Love, as, murmur'd these old houghs heneath, Some fierce and savage suitor it hath hound To gentle pleadings 1 Have hut these heen heard 1 No mind, no soul here kindled hut my own 1 Doth n...
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