The Dial: A Magazine for Literature, Philosophy, and Religion, Volume 1
Margaret Fuller, Ralph Waldo Emerson, George Ripley
Weeks, Jordan, and Company, 1841 - Transcendentalism
A magazine for literature, philosophy, and religion.
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action appear beauty become believe better body called cause character Christ Christianity church criticism divine doctrine doubt duty earth effect eternal existence expression face fact faith father feel freedom genius German give hands heart heaven highest holy hope hour human idea influence inspiration interest Italy labor learned leave less light literature live look man's matter means mind moral nature never object once pass perfect persons philosophy poet present principles pure reason received religion religious rich round seems seen sense society soul speak spirit stand tell thee things thou thought tion true truth Unitarian universe voice whole write young
Page 179 - Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry heaven's flame ; And, if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere, (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,) Could by industrious valor climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould...
Page 478 - Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! Thus let thy power, which like the truth Of nature on my passive youth Descended, to my onward life supply Its calm — to one who worships thee, And every form containing thee, Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human kind.
Page 123 - Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine, Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires.
Page 123 - The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak; or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise, — The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines.
Page 67 - Whilst I study to find how I am a microcosm, or little world, I find myself something more than the great. There is surely a piece of divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the sun. Nature tells me I am the image of God, as well as Scripture. He that understands not thus much, hath not his introduction or first lesson, and is yet to begin the alphabet of man.
Page 245 - And brought me to the lowest land, Unerring to the ocean sand. The moss upon the forest bark Was pole-star when the night was dark; The purple berries in the wood Supplied me necessary food; For Nature ever faithful is To such as trust her faithfulness. When the forest shall mislead me, When the night and morning lie, When sea and land refuse to feed me...
Page 123 - The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost.
Page 243 - He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds, The slight Linnea hang its twin-born heads ; And blessed the monument of the man of flowers, Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers. He heard, when in the grove, at intervals. With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls — One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century.
Page 22 - Sweet is the pleasure, Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure One with true toil ? Thou that wouldst taste it, Still do thy best; Use it, not waste it, Else 'tis no rest. Wouldst behold beauty Near thee ? all round ? Only hath duty Such a sight found. Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere.