The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Volume 11

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1904
 

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Page 310 - Pay ransom to the owner, And fill the bag to the brim. Who is the owner? The slave is owner, And ever was. Pay him.
Page 605 - Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.
Page 582 - Not now as a servant, but above a servant, a brother beloved, specially to me, but how much more unto thee, both in the flesh, and in the Lord?
Page 392 - Boston Hymn READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY I, 1863 The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside, And filled their hearts with flame. God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.
Page 212 - Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. Burns, Shelley, were with us— they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen. He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering, — not thro...
Page 211 - Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains, — A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone : from those great eyes The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!
Page 592 - I endeavored to act up to that instruction. I say I am yet too young to understand that God is any respecter of persons.
Page 592 - I believe that to have interfered as I have done — as I have always freely admitted I have done — in behalf of His despised poor, was not wrong, but right Now,. if it is deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the furtherance of the ends of justice, and mingle my blood further with...
Page 336 - Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.
Page 1 - I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be.

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