File:The pictorial sketch-book of Pennsylvania, or, Its scenery, internal improvements, resources, and agriculture, populary described (1852) (14758624694).jpg

Identifier: pictorialsketchb00elib (find matches)
Title: The pictorial sketch-book of Pennsylvania, or, Its scenery, internal improvements, resources, and agriculture, populary described
Year: 1852 (1850s)
Authors: Bowen, Eli, b. 1824 Joseph Meredith Toner Collection (Library of Congress) DLC
Subjects: Mines and mineral resources Railroads
Publisher: Philadelphia, Willis P. Hazard
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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. If woman be there, there is happiness too;—Nor did she her enamoring magic deny;— That magic his heart had relinquished so long,—Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye. Like them did it soften and weep at his song.Oh, blessed be the tear, and in memory oft. May its sparkle be shed o er the wanderers dream;Thrice blessed be that eye, and may passion as soft. As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam !The stranger is gone—but he will not forget. When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known,To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met. As he strayed by the banks of the Schuylkill alone! It was also during his lonely rambles on the banks of the Schuyl-kill that the following beautiful ballad stanzas were written—mostprobably while contemplating some neighboring cottage: I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near;And I said, If there s peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here !
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LAURELHILLCEiMETERY. 31 It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.And Here, in this lone little wood, I exclaimed, With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die !By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips. Which had never been sighed on by any but mine! Whatever may be thought of the justness of Mr. Moores estimateof our country forty-fivo years ago, it hardly needs comment now.The poet, then young and inexperienced, lived long enough to formdifferent and more correct opinions. It is but a few months since hedied, after lingering, for a considerable time, in a melancholy andimbecile state of mind. Whatever his sentiments may have been,subs

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