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Shillaber, B. P. (Benjamin Penhallow), 1814-1890 [1859], Knitting-work: a web of many textures. (Brown, Taggard & Chase, Boston) [word count] [eaf676T]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
The long, long day had wearily flown, And now 'neath his own roof-tree The banker sat by his hearth alone, And an anxious man was he, — No cheerful light from his eyes outshone, As he sighed right heavily. He had felt the fever and fearful strife, — That gnawing at the heart, Which, with trouble and sorrow rife, Had swept above the mart; And he thought of the joys of a humble life, From cares like his apart. His aching eyelids drooped to a close, His head sank on his breast; Forgot was the world, its ills and woes, In the moment of peaceful rest, And the wave of sorrow that round him rose A joyful hope expressed. No notes to pay mixed with his dreams, — He moved as free as the air, — No speculation 's subtle schemes In his present thoughts had share, But plenty around him shed its beams, And followed him everywhere. Domestic joy upon him smiled, And he felt its blissful power; The precious presence of wife and child Illumed his peaceful bower; And the sweets of home the ill beguiled Of every passing hour.
All faces were lit with glad content: The day of banks had flown; By joy men reckoned their rate per cent., And owned this rule alone; And the sharpers who by usury lent Had all to Tophet gone. And growing love 'twixt man and man Assumed the selfish place, And a happy brotherhood began Again to unite the race, And man ne'er from his brother ran, With shame on his bankrupt face. The busy wheels of a thousand mills Made music grandly sweet, And the cattle upon a thousand hills Looked comely, sleek, and neat, While Labor smiled by the mountain rills, With plenty and peace replete. And calmly he slept in his ample chair, His breathing was soft and low; No darkened shapes obtruded there, With their burthen of pressing woe; Forgot was the gloomy weight of care That had checked his spirit's flow. He started and woke. “Sweet vision, stay! O, can it be all in vain? Must the beauteous and angelic ray Be lost in the clouds of pain? I 'd give all my hopes of wealth to-day, To dream that dream again.”
Shillaber, B. P. (Benjamin Penhallow), 1814-1890 [1859], Knitting-work: a web of many textures. (Brown, Taggard & Chase, Boston) [word count] [eaf676T]. |