It began with the lines
"Bind up thy tresses, thou beautiful one,
Of brown in the shadow, and gold in the sun."
It was a refreshment and an inspiration to look into this book
between my long rows of figures, and read such poems as "The
Angel of Patience," "Follen," "Raphael," and that wonderfully
rendered "Hymn" from Lamartine, that used to whisper itself
through me after I had read it, like the echo of a spirit's
voice:--
"When the Breath Divine is flowing,
Zephyr-like o'er all things going,
And, as the touch of viewless fingers,
Softly on my soul it lingers,
Open to a breath the lightest,
Conscious of a touch the slightest,--
Then, O Father, Thou alone,
>From the shadow of thy throne,
To the sighing of my breast
And its rapture answerest."
I grew so familiar with this volume that I felt acquainted with
the poet long before I met him. It remained in my desk-drawer for
months. I thought it belonged to my poetic friend, the baler of
cloth. But one day he informed me that it was a borrowed book; he
thouht, however, he should claim it for his own, now that he had
kept it so long.
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