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"O THOU ART BEAUTIFUL! THE HILLS ARE BOWED BENEATH THEE; ON THY NAME THE SOFT WINDS CALL;

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THE GIFTS OF EARTH ARE GIVEN TO THE BASE."-BUCHANAN.

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"I SADDENED IN THE SAD THINGS OF THE WORLD."-BUCHANAN.

THE MONSTROUS OCEAN TRUMPETS IT ALOUD, THE RAINS AND SNOWS INTONE IT AS THEY FALL."-BUCHANAN.

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"COME, FAITH, WITH EYES OF MELANCHOLY GAZE! COME, HOPE, WITH FEET THAT BLEED FROM THORNY WAYS!

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ON A WILD OCEAN OF MYSTERIOUS LIFE!"-BUCHANAN.

AND IN THE MIDST, LEADING THESE TWAIN TO ME, COME, LATEST-BORN OF TIME, WHITE CHARITY."-BUCHANAN.

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"THE WONDER OF THE SUN WHO SENDS HIS LONG BRIGHT LOOK THROUGH ALL FUTURITY."-BUCHANAN.

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NOT WHOLLY SAD, FAITHFUL THOUGH FORLORN."-BUCHANAN.

UP IN AN ATTIC.

Yea, Fame, thou barren voice,
Shriek from the heights above:
Let all who will rejoice

In those false lights above!
When all are false save you,
Yet were so beauteous too,
O Fame, canst thou be true,
And shall I follow?

Nay, for the heart of man
Breaks in the dark, since Pan
Has slain Apollo.

Fame, thy hill looks tame,

No vast wings flee from thence,-
Were I to climb, O Fame,

What should I see from thence?

Only, afar away,
The mountains looming gray,
Crimsoned at close of day,

;

Clouds swimming by me
And in my hand a ring
And ringlet glimmering,—

And no one nigh me!

Better the busy roar,

Speaking to me of men,

Dashing against its shore,

Groans the great sea of men.

O Love-thou wouldst not wait!

O Land-thou art desolate!

O Fame-to others prate
Thy joys ecstatic!

THE DIVINE REPOSE WE SEEK, AND CANNOT FIND!"--BUCHANAN.

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"THE SOUL GIVES A SPEECH OF ITS OWN TO THE BEAUTY THAT PERISHES NEVER!"-R. BUCHANAN.

'HEAL THYSELF: FROM GRIEF COMES GLORY, LIKE A RAINBOW FROM A CLOUD."-ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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LOOK UP FOR COMFORT TO THE SILENT STARS."-BUCHANAN.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Only at evenfall,

Watching these tokens small,

I think upon you all,
Up in an attic!

[From "London Poems." It originally appeared in a magazine named
The Argosy].

THE CITY OF THE FUTURE.

OMFORT, O true and free,

Soon shall there rise for ye
A CITY fairer far than all ye plan;
Built on a rock of strength,

It shall arise at length,

Stately and fair and great, the CITY meet for man!

Towering to yonder skies,

Shall the fair City rise,

In the sweet dawning of a day more pure :

House, mart, and street, and square,

Yea, and a fane for prayer,

Fair, and yet built by hands, strong, for it shall endure.

In the fair City then,

Shall walk white-robed men,

Washed in the river of peace that watereth it;

Woman with man shall meet

Freely in mart and street,

At the great council-board woman with man shall sit.

Hunger and Thirst and Sin

Shall never pass therein;

Fed with pure dews of love, children shall grow ;

Nought shall be bought and sold,

Nought shall be given for gold,

All shall be bright as day, all shall be white as snow.

"LOVE IS AS CUNNING AS DISEASE OR DEATH."-BUCHANAN.

"TEARS BRING FORTH THE RICHNESS OF OUR NATURES, AS THE RAIN SWEETENS THE SMELLING BRIER."-IBID.

"TEARS, TEARS BRING FORTH THE RICHES OF OUR NATURE."-ROBERT BUCHANAN.

"AND LIGHT THAT HE HAS LOST WILL COME AGAIN-(BUCHANAN)

THE CITY OF THE FUTURE.

There, on the fields around,

All men shall till the ground,

Corn shall wave yellow, and bright rivers stream;

Daily, at set of sun,

All, when their work is done,

Shall watch the heavens yearn down and the strange
starlight gleam.

In the fair City of men,

All shall be silent then,

While on a reverent lute, gentle and low,

Some holy bard shall play

Ditties divine, and say

Whence those that hear have come, whither in time

they go.

No man of blood shall dare

Wear the white mantle there;

No man of lust shall walk in street or mart;

Yet shall the Magdalen

Walk with the citizen;

Yet shall the sinner grow gracious and pure of heart.

Now, while suns come and go,

Doth the fair City grow,

Surely its stones are laid in sun and moon.

Wise men and pure prepare

Ever this City fair.

Comfort, O ye that weep: it shall arise full soon.

When, stately, fair, and vast,

It doth uprise at last,

Who shall be King thereof, say, O ye wise?—

When the last blood is spilt,

When the fair City is built,

Unto the throne thereof, a Monarch shall arise.

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TO SHINE UPON HIM AS HE GOES TO SLEEP."-ROBERT BUCHANAN.

"LIFE IS A CLIMBING, A SEEKING OF SOMETHING WE NEVER CAN SEE!"-BUCHANAN.

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