Higher Lessons in English by Alonzo Reed and Brainerd Kellogg (popular books to read TXT) 📕

perhaps, travelers from distant regions shall in vain labor to decipher on some moldering pedestal the name of our proudest chief, shall hear savage hymns chanted to some misshapen idol over the ruined dome of our proudest temple, and shall see a single naked fisherman wash his nets in the river of the ten thousand masts,—her influence and her glory will still survive, fresh in eternal youth, exempt from mutability and decay, immortal as the intellectual principle from which they derived their origin, and over which they exercise their control.—_Macaulay_.

5. To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last, bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony and shroud and pall And breathless darkness and the narrow house Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,— Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters and the depths of air— Comes a still voice.—_Bryant_.

6. Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go; Or where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping eaves The shadows hardly move.—Longfellow.

7. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed praise Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, “Served him right! ‘tis not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising.”—_Saxe_.

8. There were communities, scarce known by name In these degenerate days, but once far-famed, Where liberty and justice, hand in hand, Ordered the common weal; where great men grew Up to their natural eminence, and none Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great; Where power was of God’s gift to whom he gave Supremacy of merit—the sole means And broad highway to power, that ever then Was meritoriously administered, Whilst all its instruments, from first to last, The tools of state for service high or low, Were chosen for their aptness to those ends Which virtue meditates.—_Henry Taylor_.

9. Stranger, these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitant a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath And juniper and thistle sprinkled o’er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life; And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,—how lovely ‘t is Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous.—_Wordsworth_.

10. But, when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro’ the field, that shone Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Pall’d all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the life-long creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o’er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kiss’d her quiet brows, and, saying to her, “Sister, farewell forever,” and again, “Farewell, sweet sister,” parted all in tears.—_Tennyson_

11. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘t is something, nothing; ‘T was mine, ‘t is his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.—_Shakespeare_.

12. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide,— “Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?” I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.” —_Milton_.—_Sonnet on his Blindness_.

13. Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest; When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored; When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,— What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin-pie? —_Whittier_.

14. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these. —_Shelley.—The Cloud_.

15. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening’s close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog’s voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,— These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. —_Goldsmith_.

16. To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene, Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean;— This is not solitude; ‘t is but to hold Converse with nature’s charms, and view her stores unrolled. —_Byron_.

17. The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long, And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, Had cast them forth; so, young and strong And lightsome as a locust leaf, Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.—_Lowell_.

18. Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,— We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at the sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employed, Tho’ mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet destroyed; The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot, As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring and knuckle down at taw, To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat;— The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights That, viewing it, we seem almost t’ obtain Our innocent, sweet, simple years again.—_Cowper_.

19. Considering our present advanced state of culture, and how the torch of science has now been brandished and borne about, with more or less effect, for five thousand years and upwards; how, in these times especially, not only the torch still burns, and perhaps more fiercely than ever, but innumerable rush-lights and sulphur-matches, kindled thereat, are also glancing in every direction, so that not the smallest cranny or doghole in nature or art can remain unilluminated,—it might strike the reflective mind with some surprise that hitherto little or nothing of a fundamental character, whether in the way of philosophy or history, has been written on the subject of Clothes.—_Carlyle_.

20. When we see one word of a frail man on the throne of France tearing a hundred thousand sons from their homes, breaking asunder the sacred ties of domestic life, sentencing myriads of the young to make murder their calling and rapacity their means of support, and extorting from nations their treasures to extend this ruinous sway, we are ready to ask ourselves, Is not this a dream? and, when the sad reality comes home to us, we blush for a race which can stoop to such an abject lot. At length, indeed, we see the tyrant humbled, stripped of power, but stripped by those who, in the main, are not unwilling to play the despot on a narrower scale, and to break down the spirit of nations under the same iron sway.—_Channing_.

21. There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season of the year, wherein the world reaches its perfection; when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the earth make a harmony, as if Nature would indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak upper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we bask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba; when everything that has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts.–_Emerson_.

22. Did you never, in walking in the fields, come across a large flat stone, which had lain, nobody knows how long, just where you found it, with the grass forming a little hedge, as it were, all round it, close to its edges; and have you not, in obedience to a kind of feeling that told you it had been lying there long enough, insinuated your stick or your foot or your fingers under its edge, and turned it over as a housewife turns a cake, when she says to herself, “It’s done brown enough by this time”? But no sooner is the stone turned and the wholesome light of day let upon this compressed and blinded community of creeping things than all of them which enjoy the luxury of legs—and some of them have a good many—rush round wildly, butting each other and everything in their way, and end in a general stampede for underground retreats from the region poisoned by sunshine. Next year you will find the grass growing tall and green where the stone lay; the ground-bird builds her nest where the beetle had his hole; the dandelion and the buttercup are growing there, and the broad fans of insect-angels open and shut over their golden disks, as the rhythmic waves of blissful consciousness pulsate through their glorified being.—_Holmes_.

23. There is a different and sterner path;—I know not whether there be any now qualified to tread