PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
Project Gutenberg Archive
Complete unabridged public-domain literary work from the Project Gutenberg archive.
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PROLOGUE AGNES THE PLOUGHMAN SPRING THE STUDY THE BELLS NON-RESISTANCE THE MORAL BULLY THE MIND'S DIET OUR LIMITATIONS THE OLD PLAYER A POEM DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9,1850 TO GOVERNOR SWAIN TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES THE HUDSON THE NEW EDEN SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22,1855 FAREWELL TO J. R. LOWELL FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB, 1856 ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER THE VOICELESS THE TWO STREAMS THE PROMISE AVIS THE LIVING TEMPLE AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL: TO J. R. LOWELL A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO J. F. CLARKE THE GRAY CHIEF THE LAST LOOK: W. W. SWAIN IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR. MARTHA MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE THE PARTING SONG FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS BOSTON COMMON: THREE PICTURES THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA INTERNATIONAL ODE VIVE LA FRANCE BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE
THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, Her glorious standard flaming to the day! The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North The myriad-handed Future stretches forth Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come,--we come!
Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease. It matters little if they pall or please, Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last These calm revolving moons that come and go-- Turning our months to years, they creep so slow-- Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast On the wild winds that all around us blow. May 1, 1861.
The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society.
At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.--[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]--Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story.
The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.
THE tale I tell is gospel true, As all the bookmen know, And pilgrims who have strayed to view The wrecks still left to show.
The old, old story,--fair, and young, And fond,--and not too wise,-- That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, To maids with downcast eyes.
Arthur Conan Doyle
