Sarah J. Hale, fully Sarah Josepha Buell Hale

Sarah J.
Hale, fully Sarah Josepha Buell Hale
1788
1879

American Author, Editor and Writer, Author of nursery rhyme "Mary Had a Little Lamb"

Author Quotes

He fears not dying--'tis a deeper fear,--the thunder-peal cries to his conscience--"Hear"! The rushing winds from memory lift the veil, and in each flash his sins, like spectres pale, freed, from their dark abode, his guilty breast, shriek in his startled ear--"Death is not rest"!

There is small danger of being starved in our land of plenty; but the danger of being stuffed is imminent.

His eloquence is classic in its style, not brilliant with explosive coruscations of heterogeneous thoughts, at random caught, and scatter'd like a shower of shooting stars, that end in darkness: no;--his noble mind is clear, and full, and stately, and serene. His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps fix'd on the sun of Truth, and breathes his words as easily as eagles cleave the air; and never pauses till the height is won; and all who listen follow where he leads.

Though youth be past, and beauty fled, the constant heart its pledge redeems, like box, that guards the flowerless bed and brighter from the contrast seems.

I have no riches but my thoughts, yet these are wealth enough for me.

We are all children in our strife to seize each petty pleasure, as it lures the sight, and like the tall tree swaying in the breeze, our lofty wishes stoop their tow'ring flight, till when the prize is won it seems no more than gather'd shells from ocean's countless store, and ever those who would enjoyment gain must find it in the purpose they pursue.

In this age of innovation, perhaps no experiment will have an influence more important on the character and happiness of our society than the granting to females the advantages of a systematic and thorough education.

What matter though the scorn of fools be given if the path follow'd lead us on to heaven!

I've learned to judge of men by their own deeds; I do not make the accident of birth the standard of their merit.

Like a mountain lone and bleak, with its sky-encompass d peak, thunder riven, lifting its forehead bare, through the cold and blighting air, up to heaven, is the soul that feels its woe, and is nerv'd to bear the blow.

Lone traveler through the fields of air, what may thy presence here portend? Art come to greet the planets fair, as friend greets friend? Whate'er thy purpose, thou dost teach some lessons to the humble soul; though far and dim-thy pathway reach, yet still thy goal tends to the fountain of that light from whence thy golden beams are won; so should we turn, from earth's dark night, to God our sun.

Next to genius is the power of feeling where true genius lies.

Nor need we power or splendor, wide hall or lordly dome; the good, the true, the tender ? these form the wealth of home.

O beautiful rainbow;--all woven of light! There's not in thy tissue one shadow of night; Heaven surely is open when thou dost appear. And, bending thee above, the angels draw near, and sing,--"The rainbow! the rainbow! The smile of God is here.?

O wondrous power! how little understood,-- Entrusted to the mother's mind alone, to fashion genius, form the soul for good, inspire a West, or train a Washington!

A better time is coming. Women, capable of using their facilities for the improvement of society, will not much longer remain in the castle of indolence. Would that those of my sex who are urging, onward, into the industrial pursuits, and other professions appropriate to men, might turn their attention to improvements in domestic economy. Here is an open field, where their heads and hearts as well as hands may find ample scope and noble objects.

Oh! welcome to the wearied Earth the Sabbath resting comes, gathering the sons of toil and care back to their peaceful homes; and, like a portal to the skies, opens the House of God, where all who seek may come and learn the way the Savior trod. But holier to the wanderer seems the Sabbath on the deep, when on, and on, in ceaseless course, the toiling bark must keep, and not a trace of man appears amid the wilderness of waters--then it comes like dove direct from heaven to bless.

A blessing on the printer's art!-- Books are the mentors of the heart.

Our Thanksgiving Day, becoming the focus, as it were, of the private life and virtues of the people, should be hallowed and exalted, and made the day of generous deeds and innocent enjoyments, of noble aspirations and heavenly hopes.

And evermore the waters worship God;-- And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres while listening to the music of the waves!

Rugged strength and radiant beauty--these were one in Nature's plan; humble toil and heavenward duty--these will form the perfect man.

Ay, justice, who evades her? Her scales reach every heart; the action and the motive, she weigheth each apart; and none who swerve from right or truth can 'scape her penalty.

She was a weak woman - too highly elated in prosperity, too easily depressed by adversity - not considering that both are situations of trial

Hail, Holy Day! the blessing from above brightens thy presence like a smile of love, smoothing, like oil upon a stormy sea, the roughest waves of human destiny cheering the good, and to the poor oppress'd bearing the promise of their heavenly rest.

The burning soul, the burden'd mind, in books alone companions find.

Author Picture
First Name
Sarah J.
Last Name
Hale, fully Sarah Josepha Buell Hale
Birth Date
1788
Death Date
1879
Bio

American Author, Editor and Writer, Author of nursery rhyme "Mary Had a Little Lamb"