 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
99
OCCASIONAL POEMS.
101
I.
HYMNS FOR THE LORD'S SUPPER AND CHRISTMAS.
103
HYMNS FOR COMMUNION.
[I. Break ye the bread, and pour the wine]
“Break ye the bread, and pour the wine,
As ye have seen your Master do;
This body and this blood of mine
Is broken thus and shed for you.”
As ye have seen your Master do;
This body and this blood of mine
Is broken thus and shed for you.”
Yes, mighty God! while life remains,
We will remember him who bled;
Whom Death, in his cold, palsying chains,
A captive and a victim led.
We will remember him who bled;
Whom Death, in his cold, palsying chains,
A captive and a victim led.
We will remember him, by whom
Those strong and icy chains were riven;
Who scattered round his opening tomb
Their broken links,—and rose to heaven.
Those strong and icy chains were riven;
Who scattered round his opening tomb
Their broken links,—and rose to heaven.
And, while with gratitude we dwell
On all his tears of love and woe,
Let death's chill tide before us swell!
Let its still waters darkly flow!
On all his tears of love and woe,
Let death's chill tide before us swell!
Let its still waters darkly flow!
104
We 'll give our bodies to the stream;
'T will bear us—(for the dead shall rise,
Or faith is vain, and hope a dream,)—
To happier shores and brighter skies.
'T will bear us—(for the dead shall rise,
Or faith is vain, and hope a dream,)—
To happier shores and brighter skies.
[II. The winds are hushed;—the peaceful moon]
“And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives.”
—Matth. xxvi. 30.
—Matth. xxvi. 30.
The winds are hushed;—the peaceful moon
Looks down on Zion's hill;
The city sleeps; 't is night's calm noon;
And all the streets are still.
Looks down on Zion's hill;
The city sleeps; 't is night's calm noon;
And all the streets are still.
Save when, along the shaded walks,
We hear the watchman's call,
Or the guard's footstep, as he stalks
In moonlight on the wall.
We hear the watchman's call,
Or the guard's footstep, as he stalks
In moonlight on the wall.
How soft, how holy, is this light!
And hark! a mournful song,
As gentle as these dews of night,
Floats on the air along.
And hark! a mournful song,
As gentle as these dews of night,
Floats on the air along.
Affection's wish, devotion's prayer,
Are in that holy strain;
'T is resignation,—not despair;
'T is triumph,—though 't is pain.
Are in that holy strain;
'T is resignation,—not despair;
'T is triumph,—though 't is pain.
105
'T is Jesus and his faithful few,
That pour that hymn of love;
O God! may we the song renew
Around thy board above.
That pour that hymn of love;
O God! may we the song renew
Around thy board above.
[III. If it may be, O let this cup]
“O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me;
nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.”
—Matth. xxvi. 39.
nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.”
—Matth. xxvi. 39.
“If it may be, O let this cup,
Pass by me,”—prayed the Son;
“But, if I 'm doomed to drink it up,
Father! thy will be done.”
Pass by me,”—prayed the Son;
“But, if I 'm doomed to drink it up,
Father! thy will be done.”
He drank it. Bleeding on the tree,
He faintly cried, “I thirst.”
Then rose his heart, O God, to thee,
In fervent prayer,—and burst.
He faintly cried, “I thirst.”
Then rose his heart, O God, to thee,
In fervent prayer,—and burst.
That broken heart, that ebbing tide,
That spirit so resigned,
These emblems of the Crucified,
Have now recalled to mind.
That spirit so resigned,
These emblems of the Crucified,
Have now recalled to mind.
For others as our Saviour bled,
So we, at duty's call,
For others in his steps should tread,
And sacrifice our all.
So we, at duty's call,
For others in his steps should tread,
And sacrifice our all.
106
Shall we from scenes of trial shrink,
Now our Example lives?
Or shall we all with patience drink
The cup our Father gives?
Now our Example lives?
Or shall we all with patience drink
The cup our Father gives?
[IV. O'er Kedron's stream, and Salem's height]
O'er Kedron's stream, and Salem's height,
And Olivet's brown steep,
Rolls the majestic queen of night,
And showers from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep.
And Olivet's brown steep,
Rolls the majestic queen of night,
And showers from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep.
All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care;
Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless;
These leave the couch of restlessness,
To breathe the cool, calm air.
Of sorrow, grief, and care;
Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless;
These leave the couch of restlessness,
To breathe the cool, calm air.
For those who shun the glare of day,
There 's a composing power,
That meets them on their lonely way,
In the still air,—the sober ray
Of this religious hour.
There 's a composing power,
That meets them on their lonely way,
In the still air,—the sober ray
Of this religious hour.
'T is a religious hour; for he,
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemanè,
In agony and prayer.
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemanè,
In agony and prayer.
107
O, holy Father! when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
In all who celebrate this rite
In memory of him.
Of earthly joy grows dim,
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
In all who celebrate this rite
In memory of him.
[V. There's something sweet in scenes of gloom]
“And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives.”
—Matth. xxvi. 30.
—Matth. xxvi. 30.
There's something sweet in scenes of gloom
To hearts, of joy bereft;
When hope has withered in its bloom;
When friends are going to the tomb,
Or in the tomb are left.
To hearts, of joy bereft;
When hope has withered in its bloom;
When friends are going to the tomb,
Or in the tomb are left.
'T is night, a lovely night;—and lo!
Like men in vision seen,
The Saviour and his brethren go,
Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,
Led by heaven's lamp serene,
Like men in vision seen,
The Saviour and his brethren go,
Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,
Led by heaven's lamp serene,
From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream,
To Olivet's dark steep;
There, o'er past joys, so like a dream,
O'er future woes, that present seem,
In solitude to weep.
To Olivet's dark steep;
There, o'er past joys, so like a dream,
O'er future woes, that present seem,
In solitude to weep.
108
Heaven on their earthly hopes has frowned;
Their dream of thrones has fled;
The table that his love has crowned
They ne'er again shall sit around,
With Jesus at their head.
Their dream of thrones has fled;
The table that his love has crowned
They ne'er again shall sit around,
With Jesus at their head.
Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
The hope of sins forgiven;
Then, when our friends the grave devours,
When all the world around us lowers,
We 'll look from earth to heaven.
The hope of sins forgiven;
Then, when our friends the grave devours,
When all the world around us lowers,
We 'll look from earth to heaven.
[VI. Had Jesus left his scattered fold]
“For my flesh is meat indeed.”
—John vi. 55.
—John vi. 55.
Had Jesus left his scattered fold
The legacy of pride,
Golconda's gems and Ophir's gold,
When he, their Shepherd, died;
The legacy of pride,
Golconda's gems and Ophir's gold,
When he, their Shepherd, died;
Few would have hoarded many a gem,
Of those who shared them first;
And O, how many, even of them,
Had, in that gift, been cursed!
Of those who shared them first;
And O, how many, even of them,
Had, in that gift, been cursed!
Had such a legacy been cast
Upon the stream of time;
Would it have come through ages past,—
Ages of night and crime?
Upon the stream of time;
Would it have come through ages past,—
Ages of night and crime?
109
And had it reached us all, should we
In such a boon be blessed?
O no;—a part might misers be,
And prodigals the rest.
In such a boon be blessed?
O no;—a part might misers be,
And prodigals the rest.
But all may now a treasure hoard,
That ne'er engenders strife;
For we may all, around this board,
Partake the bread of life.
That ne'er engenders strife;
For we may all, around this board,
Partake the bread of life.
[VII. When Asia's mighty conqueror died]
“My blood is drink indeed.”
—John vi. 55.
—John vi. 55.
When Asia's mighty conqueror died,
His followers shared his realm:
Yet, O how soon did ruin's tide
Them and their thrones o'erwhelm!
His followers shared his realm:
Yet, O how soon did ruin's tide
Them and their thrones o'erwhelm!
Had every monarch from his throne
By Jesus' arm been hurled;
Had he, the conqueror, held alone
The sceptre of the world;—
By Jesus' arm been hurled;
Had he, the conqueror, held alone
The sceptre of the world;—
Had his Apostles shared the globe;
Had all the Orient gems,
That deck the royal Persian's robe,
Blazed on their diadems;—
Had all the Orient gems,
That deck the royal Persian's robe,
Blazed on their diadems;—
110
Throned on the Egyptian's pyramid,
Old Time had seen their power
All crumble, as the Grecian's did,
And wither like a flower.
Old Time had seen their power
All crumble, as the Grecian's did,
And wither like a flower.
This Jesus knew; and, ere the thorns
Around his head were pressed,
The banquet which this board adorns
He spread for all, and blessed.
Around his head were pressed,
The banquet which this board adorns
He spread for all, and blessed.
Then gave he gems of hope to shine
Around this goblet's brim;
Then dropped a pearl into this wine,—
The Memory of Him.
Around this goblet's brim;
Then dropped a pearl into this wine,—
The Memory of Him.
[VIII. Our Father! we approach thy board]
Our Father! we approach thy board,
As children, that would be forgiven;
Remembering him, thy Son, who poured
His blood, to seal our hope of heaven.
As children, that would be forgiven;
Remembering him, thy Son, who poured
His blood, to seal our hope of heaven.
O God, our Saviour! while we thus
Remember him who made us free,
Who agonized and died for us,
Our grateful hearts would rise to thee.
Remember him who made us free,
Who agonized and died for us,
Our grateful hearts would rise to thee.
111
In him, whose bursting heart the cloud
Of sorrow chilled, and wretchedness;
In him, whose fainting head was bowed
In his unspeakable distress;
Of sorrow chilled, and wretchedness;
In him, whose fainting head was bowed
In his unspeakable distress;
O listen to our fervent prayer;
That he, who hung on Calvary's hill,
And gave thee back his spirit there,
May live in our affections still.
That he, who hung on Calvary's hill,
And gave thee back his spirit there,
May live in our affections still.
112
CHRISTMAS HYMN.
No moon hung o'er the sleeping earth,
But, on their thrones of light,
The stars, that sang ere morning's birth,
Filled the blue vault of night
With heavenly music;—earthly ears
Not often catch the hymn;
It was “the music of the spheres,”
The song of seraphim.
But, on their thrones of light,
The stars, that sang ere morning's birth,
Filled the blue vault of night
With heavenly music;—earthly ears
Not often catch the hymn;
It was “the music of the spheres,”
The song of seraphim.
But there were those in Judah's land,
Who watched, that night, their fold,
Who heard the song of the angel band,
As o'er them was unrolled
The starry glory;—and there came
This burst of heavenly song,
From mellow tubes and lips of flame,
In chorus loud and long.
Who watched, that night, their fold,
Who heard the song of the angel band,
As o'er them was unrolled
The starry glory;—and there came
This burst of heavenly song,
From mellow tubes and lips of flame,
In chorus loud and long.
“To God be glory!—for, this day,
Hath shot, from Judah's stem,
A Branch, that ne'er shall know decay:—
The royal diadem
Shall grace the brows of one, whom ye
Shall in a manger find;
For, him hath God raised up to be
The Saviour of mankind.
Hath shot, from Judah's stem,
A Branch, that ne'er shall know decay:—
The royal diadem
113
Shall in a manger find;
For, him hath God raised up to be
The Saviour of mankind.
“To God be glory! Peace on earth!
Glory to God again!
For, with this infant Saviour's birth,
There comes good will to men!”—
Good will to men! O God, we hail
This, of thy law the sum;
For, as this shall o'er earth prevail,
So shall thy kingdom come.
Glory to God again!
For, with this infant Saviour's birth,
There comes good will to men!”—
Good will to men! O God, we hail
This, of thy law the sum;
For, as this shall o'er earth prevail,
So shall thy kingdom come.
115
II.
HYMNS FOR ORDINATION AND INSTALLATION.
117
[I. O Thou who art above all height]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. William Ware, as Pastor of the First Congregational Church in New York, December 18th, 1821.
O Thou who art above all height!
Our God, our Father, and our Friend!
Beneath thy throne of love and light,
We, thine adoring children, bend.
Our God, our Father, and our Friend!
Beneath thy throne of love and light,
We, thine adoring children, bend.
We kneel in praise,—that here is set
A vine, that by thy culture grew;
We kneel in prayer,—that thou wouldst wet
Its opening leaves with heavenly dew.
A vine, that by thy culture grew;
We kneel in prayer,—that thou wouldst wet
Its opening leaves with heavenly dew.
Since thy young servant now hath given
Himself, his powers, his hopes, his youth,
To the great cause of truth and Heaven;
Be thou his guide, O God of truth!
Himself, his powers, his hopes, his youth,
To the great cause of truth and Heaven;
Be thou his guide, O God of truth!
Here may his doctrine drop like rain,
His speech like Hermon's dew distill,
Till green fields smile, and golden grain,
Ripe for the harvest, waits thy will.
His speech like Hermon's dew distill,
Till green fields smile, and golden grain,
Ripe for the harvest, waits thy will.
118
And when he sinks in death,—by care,
Or pain, or toil, or years oppressed,—
O God! remember then our prayer,
And take his spirit to thy rest.
Or pain, or toil, or years oppressed,—
O God! remember then our prayer,
And take his spirit to thy rest.
[II. To Thee, our Father and our King]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. John P. B. Storer, as Pastor of the Congregational Church and Society in Walpole, November 15th, 1826.
To Thee, our Father and our King,
The wise, the gracious, and the just,
Our song of thanks and prayer we bring,
With humble joy and filial trust.
The wise, the gracious, and the just,
Our song of thanks and prayer we bring,
With humble joy and filial trust.
Joy, that while yet the light is shed
On the bowed form and hoary hairs
Of him who here, so long, hath led
Our fathers' and our childhood's prayers,—
On the bowed form and hoary hairs
Of him who here, so long, hath led
Our fathers' and our childhood's prayers,—
Thou hast provided for thy flock
A pastor, in the strength of youth,
To lead them up to Thee, their Rock,
And to the living wells of truth.
A pastor, in the strength of youth,
To lead them up to Thee, their Rock,
And to the living wells of truth.
And trust, that He, who ne'er hath left,
Will never leave his sheep to stray,
Of shepherd and of shade bereft,
O'er barren wastes, by night or day.
Will never leave his sheep to stray,
Of shepherd and of shade bereft,
O'er barren wastes, by night or day.
119
We thank Thee, Lord, in Christ thy Son,
For all his servants, spared or given;
O, may we, when our work is done,
Shine with their light, and share their heaven.
For all his servants, spared or given;
O, may we, when our work is done,
Shine with their light, and share their heaven.
[III. God of mercy, do thou never]
God of mercy, do thou never
From our offering turn away,
But command a blessing ever
On the memory of this day.
From our offering turn away,
But command a blessing ever
On the memory of this day.
Light and peace do Thou ordain it;
O'er it be no shadow flung;
Let no deadly darkness stain it,
And no cloud be o'er it hung.
O'er it be no shadow flung;
Let no deadly darkness stain it,
And no cloud be o'er it hung.
May the song this people raises,
And its vows, to Thee addressed,
Mingle with the prayers and praises,
That Thou hearest from the blessed.
And its vows, to Thee addressed,
Mingle with the prayers and praises,
That Thou hearest from the blessed.
When the lips are cold, that sing Thee,
And the hearts that love Thee, dust,
Father, then our souls shall bring Thee
Holier love and firmer trust.
And the hearts that love Thee, dust,
Father, then our souls shall bring Thee
Holier love and firmer trust.
120
[IV. Eternal One, whom mortal eye]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. Charles C. Sewall, as Pastor of the First Unitarian Church and Society in Danvers, April 11th, 1827.
Eternal One, whom mortal eye
Hath never seen, and ne'er can see,
Loud winds, and fires that flame on high,
Are spirits ministering to thee.
Hath never seen, and ne'er can see,
Loud winds, and fires that flame on high,
Are spirits ministering to thee.
Those angels of thy love and might,
How blest the office that they bear!
To shed on earth the holy light,
And fill with health the wakened air.
How blest the office that they bear!
To shed on earth the holy light,
And fill with health the wakened air.
And yet, to man hast thou assigned
A nobler ministry than this;—
With grace and truth to cheer the mind,
And wake the soul to health and bliss.
A nobler ministry than this;—
With grace and truth to cheer the mind,
And wake the soul to health and bliss.
By him, who to this holy end
Is now ordained,—as by the Son,
Whom thou didst sanctify and send
To save the world,—thy will be done.
Is now ordained,—as by the Son,
Whom thou didst sanctify and send
To save the world,—thy will be done.
121
Thy will be done, whene'er he leads
The service in these courts of thine;
Thy will be done, whene'er he pleads
For truth or charity divine.
The service in these courts of thine;
Thy will be done, whene'er he pleads
For truth or charity divine.
When at the couch by anguish pressed
He kneels, and speaks of pardon there,
Then may the contrite sufferer rest,
Soothed by his presence and his prayer.
He kneels, and speaks of pardon there,
Then may the contrite sufferer rest,
Soothed by his presence and his prayer.
When, like the moth, his house of clay
Is crushed, O may the spirit, Lord,
That served thee in it, hear thee say,
“Rise from thy toils to thy reward.”
Is crushed, O may the spirit, Lord,
That served thee in it, hear thee say,
“Rise from thy toils to thy reward.”
[V. O God, we see thee smile again]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. George W. Burnap, as Pastor of the First Independent Church in Baltimore, April 23d, 1828.
O God, we see thee smile again
In the sweet sunshine of the spring;
Thou comest in the gracious rain;
Thou ridest on the wind's soft wing.
In the sweet sunshine of the spring;
Thou comest in the gracious rain;
Thou ridest on the wind's soft wing.
Thou visitest the vales in floods,
That in their fulness roll along;
And, when thou breathest on the woods,
They wave in pomp, and wake with song.
That in their fulness roll along;
And, when thou breathest on the woods,
They wave in pomp, and wake with song.
122
And, Lord, are not thy goings thus
In this our sanctuary seen?
Comes not thy breath of life to us,
Our prospects clothing all in green?
In this our sanctuary seen?
Comes not thy breath of life to us,
Our prospects clothing all in green?
Reviving hopes around us bud,
Hopes, that were rooted long ago,
But languished till thy grace, in flood,
Returned and bade them swell and blow.
Hopes, that were rooted long ago,
But languished till thy grace, in flood,
Returned and bade them swell and blow.
What though for years thy feeble flock
By hands of strangers hath been fed?—
What though we've long drawn near our Rock
Without a shepherd at our head?
By hands of strangers hath been fed?—
What though we've long drawn near our Rock
Without a shepherd at our head?
We humbly hope, that not in vain
We 've borne the trials of our trust;
And that thy truth will rise, like grain,
The stronger for its sleep in dust.
We 've borne the trials of our trust;
And that thy truth will rise, like grain,
The stronger for its sleep in dust.
For days of care, and hope deferred,
O grant us years of large increase,
Till from above thy voice is heard;
“Ye faithful ones, depart in peace.”
O grant us years of large increase,
Till from above thy voice is heard;
“Ye faithful ones, depart in peace.”
123
[VI. “Let there be light!”—When from on high]
[_]
Written for the Installation of the Rev. Mellish Irving Motte, over the South Congregational Society in Boston, May 21st, 1828.
“Let there be light!”—When from on high,
O God, that first commandment came,
Forth leaped the Sun; and earth and sky
Lay in his light, and felt his flame.
O God, that first commandment came,
Forth leaped the Sun; and earth and sky
Lay in his light, and felt his flame.
“Let there be light!”—The light of grace
And truth, a darkling world to bless,
Came with thy word, when on our race
Broke forth the Sun of Righteousness.
And truth, a darkling world to bless,
Came with thy word, when on our race
Broke forth the Sun of Righteousness.
Light of our souls! how strong it grows!
That Sun! how wide his beams he flings,
As up the glorious sky he goes,
With light and healing in his wings!
That Sun! how wide his beams he flings,
As up the glorious sky he goes,
With light and healing in his wings!
Give us that light! O God, 't is given!
Hope sees it open heaven's wide halls
To those, who for the truth have striven;
And Faith walks firmly where it falls.
Hope sees it open heaven's wide halls
To those, who for the truth have striven;
And Faith walks firmly where it falls.
Churches no more, in cold eclipse,
Mourn the withholding of its rays;
It gilds their gates, and on the lips
Of every faithful preacher plays.
Mourn the withholding of its rays;
It gilds their gates, and on the lips
Of every faithful preacher plays.
124
Doth not its circle clasp the brows
Of him, who, in the strength of youth,
Gives himself up, in this day's vows,
A minister of grace and truth?
Of him, who, in the strength of youth,
Gives himself up, in this day's vows,
A minister of grace and truth?
Long may it, Lord;—nor let his soul
Go through death's gloomy vale alone;
But bear it on to its high goal,
Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne.
Go through death's gloomy vale alone;
But bear it on to its high goal,
Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne.
[VII. “On earth be peace!”—O God, that word]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. William Barry, over the Second Congregational Church and Society in Lowell November 17th, 1830.
“On earth be peace!”—O God, that word
To our ears comes not, as it came,
When by Judea's shepherds heard
From opening skies and lips of flame.
To our ears comes not, as it came,
When by Judea's shepherds heard
From opening skies and lips of flame.
Yet 't is thy word, when mortal tongue
Makes it the burden of a hymn,
Not less than when, of old, it rung
From golden harps of cherubim.
Makes it the burden of a hymn,
Not less than when, of old, it rung
From golden harps of cherubim.
What though heaven's gates no more expand,
And heavenly hosts their hymning cease!
On earth thine humbler servants stand,
In humbler temples, “preaching peace.”
And heavenly hosts their hymning cease!
On earth thine humbler servants stand,
In humbler temples, “preaching peace.”
125
Peace to the passions, when they show
Resistance to thy wise control;
Peace to all fears, but those which go
In arms against a sinful soul.
Resistance to thy wise control;
Peace to all fears, but those which go
In arms against a sinful soul.
Peace may thy servant preach, who now
Comes, as a herald of thy grace,
To lead thy people when they bow
In worship, in this holy place.
Comes, as a herald of thy grace,
To lead thy people when they bow
In worship, in this holy place.
Beneath his care and labors, Lord,
O, grant thy vineyard large increase;
And may a crown, as his reward,
Be given him by the Prince of Peace.
O, grant thy vineyard large increase;
And may a crown, as his reward,
Be given him by the Prince of Peace.
[VIII. When on the sun's broad splendors]
[_]
Written for the Installation of the Rev Andrew Bigelow, over the First Congregational Church and Society in Taunton, April 10th, 1833.
When on the sun's broad splendors
The gates of evening close,
And darkling earth surrenders
Her children to repose,
The azure paths above us
By sons of light are trod,
Who watch, as those who love us,
And tell us of our God.
The gates of evening close,
And darkling earth surrenders
Her children to repose,
The azure paths above us
By sons of light are trod,
Who watch, as those who love us,
And tell us of our God.
126
So, Father, since the portals,
Round which thine angels press,
Shut from the eyes of mortals
The Sun of Righteousness,
The world he blessed hath never
Of light been all bereft;
The heralds of thy favor,
Thy watchmen, still are left.
Round which thine angels press,
Shut from the eyes of mortals
The Sun of Righteousness,
The world he blessed hath never
Of light been all bereft;
The heralds of thy favor,
Thy watchmen, still are left.
They come, when we are weeping,
To wipe our tears away;
They wake, while we are sleeping,
And for our peace they pray;
Or, in the congregation,
To plead thy cause they stand;—
O God of our salvation,
Uphold them with thy hand.
To wipe our tears away;
They wake, while we are sleeping,
And for our peace they pray;
Or, in the congregation,
To plead thy cause they stand;—
O God of our salvation,
Uphold them with thy hand.
And let that spirit fervent,
Which loves to labor thus,
Abide upon thy servant,
Who comes, this day, to us;
That, when his strength is failing,
Those he hath led may say,
“Our star is only paling
In heaven's advancing day.”
Which loves to labor thus,
Abide upon thy servant,
Who comes, this day, to us;
That, when his strength is failing,
Those he hath led may say,
“Our star is only paling
In heaven's advancing day.”
127
[IX. “The poor, the suffering poor,”—He said]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. John T. Sargent as a Minister to the Poor in Boston, October 29th, 1839.
“The poor, the suffering poor,”—He said,
Who, from his garment's very hem
A healing virtue round him shed,—
“Shall have the Gospel preached to them.”
Who, from his garment's very hem
A healing virtue round him shed,—
“Shall have the Gospel preached to them.”
Yes! He, upon whose houseless head
The stars dropped many a dewy gem,
Broke, for the poor, the living bread
He brought from heaven, and gave it them.
The stars dropped many a dewy gem,
Broke, for the poor, the living bread
He brought from heaven, and gave it them.
Beneath the shade that branch hath spread,
Which shot out green from Jesse's stem,
These wandering poor are gathered
To have the Gospel preached to them.
Which shot out green from Jesse's stem,
These wandering poor are gathered
To have the Gospel preached to them.
He, who with oxen made his bed,—
The houseless Babe of Bethlehem,—
These houseless babes hath hither led,
To have his Gospel preached to them.
The houseless Babe of Bethlehem,—
These houseless babes hath hither led,
To have his Gospel preached to them.
Lord, bless thy servant, who hath fed
These lambs of thine, and help him stem
The tide of sin, with fearless tread,
And preach the Gospel unto them.
These lambs of thine, and help him stem
The tide of sin, with fearless tread,
And preach the Gospel unto them.
128
May not the soul of each be said,
O God, to be a priceless gem?
Give them to him, who for them bled,
To sparkle in his diadem!
O God, to be a priceless gem?
Give them to him, who for them bled,
To sparkle in his diadem!
[X. To thee, O God, our Rock]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. Frederick W. Holland, over the First Unitarian Society in Brooklyn, N. Y., April 11th, 1838.
To thee, O God, our Rock,
Sing we a joyful song;
Who has not left thy flock
Without a shepherd long.
O, may the voice
Thy Spirit gave,
O'er Jordan's wave,
Approve our choice.
Sing we a joyful song;
Who has not left thy flock
Without a shepherd long.
O, may the voice
Thy Spirit gave,
O'er Jordan's wave,
Approve our choice.
To him whom thou hast sent
To labor in this field,
Lord, let thine aid be lent,
That so his ground shall yield
A large increase;
And so shall he,
When called to thee,
Depart in peace.
To labor in this field,
Lord, let thine aid be lent,
That so his ground shall yield
A large increase;
And so shall he,
When called to thee,
Depart in peace.
129
“Good Shepherd!” let thy care
To old and young extend;
These in thy bosom bear,
O'er those in pity bend;—
Thy voice alone
We love to hear;
Be ever near,
To guard thine own.
To old and young extend;
These in thy bosom bear,
O'er those in pity bend;—
Thy voice alone
We love to hear;
Be ever near,
To guard thine own.
Beside still waters led,
Through pleasant vales that flow,
And in green pastures fed,
May this, thy people, grow
In every grace,
Till all, above,
In light and love,
Behold thy face.
Through pleasant vales that flow,
And in green pastures fed,
May this, thy people, grow
In every grace,
Till all, above,
In light and love,
Behold thy face.
[XI. To thine altar, Holy One]
[_]
Written for the Ordination of Mr. Theodore H. Dorr, as Pastor of the First Congregational Church in Billerica, May 28th, 1839.
—solo.
To thine altar, Holy One,
Who dost now this temple fill,
As a servant of thy Son,
“Lo, I come to do thy will.”
Who dost now this temple fill,
As a servant of thy Son,
“Lo, I come to do thy will.”
130
—full choir.
Father! let thy servant's prayer
From thine altar rise to thee!
Make his body's health thy care;
Keep his spirit pure and free!
From thine altar rise to thee!
Make his body's health thy care;
Keep his spirit pure and free!
MINISTER.
To this people would I give
What of strength and light is mine;
But, Lord, that their souls may live,
Give them light and strength divine!
What of strength and light is mine;
But, Lord, that their souls may live,
Give them light and strength divine!
PEOPLE.
On our youthful pastor's head
Let thy holy spirit fall!
Send thy blessing with the bread
That he breaketh for us all!
Let thy holy spirit fall!
Send thy blessing with the bread
That he breaketh for us all!
MINISTER.
When my hands that bread shall break,
In thy sight may they be clean!
When my lips for thee shall speak,
Let their truth by thee be seen!
In thy sight may they be clean!
When my lips for thee shall speak,
Let their truth by thee be seen!
PEOPLE.
And when truth, from lips sincere,
To our listening ears shall come,
May it meet a welcome here!
Give it in our hearts a home.
To our listening ears shall come,
May it meet a welcome here!
Give it in our hearts a home.
131
When my hands no more are spread,
For this people, towards thy throne,
Place a worthier in my stead!
Father, leave them not alone!
For this people, towards thy throne,
Place a worthier in my stead!
Father, leave them not alone!
PEOPLE.
Father! in that solemn hour,
When his spirit leaves its clay,
Take him, by the Gospel's power,
To his rest in endless day.
When his spirit leaves its clay,
Take him, by the Gospel's power,
To his rest in endless day.
133
III.
HYMNS FOR DEDICATION.
135
[I. O Thou, to whom in ancient time]
[_]
Written for the Opening of the Independent Congregational Church in Barton Square, Salem, December 7th, 1824.
O Thou, to whom in ancient time
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue,—
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue,—
Not now on Zion's height, alone,
Thy favored worshipper may dwell;
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.
Thy favored worshipper may dwell;
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.
From every place below the skies,
The grateful song, the fervent prayer,—
The incense of the heart,—may rise
To Heaven, and find acceptance there.
The grateful song, the fervent prayer,—
The incense of the heart,—may rise
To Heaven, and find acceptance there.
In this, thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.
For social worship first unfold,
To thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.
136
To thee shall Age, with snowy hair,
And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,
And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to Thee.
And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,
And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to Thee.
O thou, to whom in ancient time
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To thee, at last, in every clime
Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To thee, at last, in every clime
Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.
[II. With trump, and pipe, and viol chords]
With trump, and pipe, and viol chords,
And song, the full assembly brings
Its tribute to the Lord of lords,
Its homage to the King of kings.
And song, the full assembly brings
Its tribute to the Lord of lords,
Its homage to the King of kings.
To God, who, from the rocky prison
Where death had bound him, brought his Son,
To God these walls from earth have risen;—
To God, “the high and lofty One.”
Where death had bound him, brought his Son,
To God these walls from earth have risen;—
To God, “the high and lofty One.”
Creator! at whose steadfast word
Alike the years and oceans roll,
Here may thy truth in Christ, our Lord,
Shine forth and sanctify the soul.
Alike the years and oceans roll,
Here may thy truth in Christ, our Lord,
Shine forth and sanctify the soul.
137
Here, where we hymn thy praises now,
Father and Judge! may many a knee
And many a spirit humbly bow,
In worship and in prayer to thee.
Father and Judge! may many a knee
And many a spirit humbly bow,
In worship and in prayer to thee.
And when our lips no more shall move,
Our hearts no longer beat or burn,
Then may the children that we love
Take up the strain, and, in their turn,
Our hearts no longer beat or burn,
Then may the children that we love
Take up the strain, and, in their turn,
With trump, and pipe, and viol strings,
Here pay, with music's sweet accords,
Their tribute to the King of kings,
Their homage to the Lord of lords.
Here pay, with music's sweet accords,
Their tribute to the King of kings,
Their homage to the Lord of lords.
[III. When thy Son, O God, was sleeping]
[_]
Written for the Dedication of the New Stone Congregational Church in Quincy, November 12th, 1828.
When thy Son, O God, was sleeping,
In death's rocky prison bound,
When his faithful ones were weeping,
And the guards were watching round,
Then thy word, that strong house shaking,
Rent the rocky bars away,
And the holy sleeper, waking,
Rose to meet the rising day.
In death's rocky prison bound,
When his faithful ones were weeping,
And the guards were watching round,
Then thy word, that strong house shaking,
Rent the rocky bars away,
And the holy sleeper, waking,
Rose to meet the rising day.
138
Where thy word, by Jesus spoken,
In its power is heard even now,
Shake the hills, the rocks are broken,
As on Calvary's trembling brow.
From the bosom of the mountain,
At that word, these stones have burst,
And have gathered round the fountain
Where our souls may quench their thirst.
In its power is heard even now,
Shake the hills, the rocks are broken,
As on Calvary's trembling brow.
From the bosom of the mountain,
At that word, these stones have burst,
And have gathered round the fountain
Where our souls may quench their thirst.
Here the water of salvation
Long hath gushed, a liberal wave;
Here a Father of our nation
Drank, and felt the strength it gave.
Here he sleeps, his bed how lowly!
But his aim and trust were high;
And his memory,—that is holy;
And his name,—it cannot die.
Long hath gushed, a liberal wave;
Here a Father of our nation
Drank, and felt the strength it gave.
Here he sleeps, his bed how lowly!
But his aim and trust were high;
And his memory,—that is holy;
And his name,—it cannot die.
While beneath this temple's portal
Rest the relies of the just,
While the light of hope immortal
Shines above his sacred dust,
While the well of life its waters
To the weary here shall give,
Father, may thy sons and daughters,
Kneeling round it, drink and live!
Rest the relies of the just,
While the light of hope immortal
Shines above his sacred dust,
While the well of life its waters
To the weary here shall give,
Father, may thy sons and daughters,
Kneeling round it, drink and live!
139
[IV. To God, to God alone]
[_]
Written for the Dedication of the First Congregational Church in Cincinnati, Ohio, May 23d, 1830.
To God, to God alone,
This temple have we reared;
To God, who holds a throne
Unshaken and unshared.
Sole King of Heaven,
Who 'st heard our prayers
And blessed our cares,
To thee 't is given.
This temple have we reared;
To God, who holds a throne
Unshaken and unshared.
Sole King of Heaven,
Who 'st heard our prayers
And blessed our cares,
To thee 't is given.
O thou, whose bounty fills
This plain so rich and wide,
And makes its guardian hills
Rejoice, on every side,
With shady tree
And growing grain;
This decent fane
We give to thee.
This plain so rich and wide,
And makes its guardian hills
Rejoice, on every side,
With shady tree
And growing grain;
This decent fane
We give to thee.
Thou, who hast ever stooped
To load our land with good,
Whose hand this vale hath scooped,
And rolleth down its flood
To the far sea,—
This house we raise,
And now, with praise,
Devote to thee.
To load our land with good,
Whose hand this vale hath scooped,
And rolleth down its flood
140
This house we raise,
And now, with praise,
Devote to thee.
To all, O God of love,
Dost thou thy footsteps show;
The white and blue above,
The green and gold below,
The grove, the breeze,
The morning's beam,
The star, the stream,—
They 're seen in these.
Dost thou thy footsteps show;
The white and blue above,
The green and gold below,
The grove, the breeze,
The morning's beam,
The star, the stream,—
They 're seen in these.
Where now, in goodly show,
The domes of art are piled,
Thy paths, not long ago,
Dropped fatness on a wild.
O let us see
Thy goings here,
Where now we rear
A house for thee.
The domes of art are piled,
Thy paths, not long ago,
Dropped fatness on a wild.
O let us see
Thy goings here,
Where now we rear
A house for thee.
Nursed by the blessed dew,
And light of Bethlehem's star,
A vine on Calvary grew,
And cast its shade afar.
A storm went by,—
One blooming bough,
Torn off, buds now
Beneath our sky.
And light of Bethlehem's star,
A vine on Calvary grew,
And cast its shade afar.
A storm went by,—
One blooming bough,
Torn off, buds now
Beneath our sky.
141
O, let no drought or blight
This plant of thine come nigh;
But may the dew, all night,
Upon its branches lie;
Till towards this vine
All flesh shall press,
And taste and bless
Its fruit and wine.
This plant of thine come nigh;
But may the dew, all night,
Upon its branches lie;
Till towards this vine
All flesh shall press,
And taste and bless
Its fruit and wine.
Because, O Lord, thy grace
Hath visited the West,
And given our hearts a place
Of worship and of rest;
Old age and youth,
The weak, the strong,
Shall praise in song
Thy grace and truth.
Hath visited the West,
And given our hearts a place
Of worship and of rest;
Old age and youth,
The weak, the strong,
Shall praise in song
Thy grace and truth.
The grace and truth that came
By thine Anointed Son,
Here let such lips proclaim
As fire hath fallen upon,
From out the high
And holy place
Where dwells in grace
Thy Deity.
By thine Anointed Son,
Here let such lips proclaim
As fire hath fallen upon,
From out the high
And holy place
Where dwells in grace
Thy Deity.
To thee, to thee alone,
This temple have we reared:
To thee,—before whose throne,
Unshaken and unshared,
Sole King of Heaven,
With thanks we bow,—
This temple now
For praise is given.
This temple have we reared:
To thee,—before whose throne,
Unshaken and unshared,
142
With thanks we bow,—
This temple now
For praise is given.
[V. To Thee, O God, in humble trust]
To Thee, O God, in humble trust,
Our hearts their grateful incense burn
For this thy word, “Thou art of dust,
And unto dust shalt thou return.”
Our hearts their grateful incense burn
For this thy word, “Thou art of dust,
And unto dust shalt thou return.”
For, what were life, life's work all done,
The hopes, joys, loves, that cling to clay,
All, all departed, one by one,
And yet life's load borne on for aye.
The hopes, joys, loves, that cling to clay,
All, all departed, one by one,
And yet life's load borne on for aye.
Decay! Decay! 't is stamped on all!
All bloom, in flower and flesh, shall fade;
Ye whispering trees, when we shall fall,
Be our long sleep beneath your shade!
All bloom, in flower and flesh, shall fade;
Ye whispering trees, when we shall fall,
Be our long sleep beneath your shade!
Here, to thy bosom, mother Earth,
Take back, in peace, what thou hast given;
And all that is of heavenly birth,
O God, in peace, recall to Heaven.
Take back, in peace, what thou hast given;
And all that is of heavenly birth,
O God, in peace, recall to Heaven.
143
[VI. Thou, who on the whirlwind ridest]
[_]
Written for the Dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, under the Direction of the Boston Port Society, September 4th, 1833.
Thou, who on the whirlwind ridest,
At whose word the thunder roars,
Who, in majesty, presidest
O'er the oceans and their shores;
From those shores, and from the oceans,
We, the children of the sea,
Come to pay thee our devotions,
And to give this house to thee.
At whose word the thunder roars,
Who, in majesty, presidest
O'er the oceans and their shores;
From those shores, and from the oceans,
We, the children of the sea,
Come to pay thee our devotions,
And to give this house to thee.
When, for business on great waters,
We go down to sea in ships,
And our weeping wives and daughters
Hang, at parting, on our lips,
This, our Bethel, shall remind us,
That there 's One who heareth prayer,
And that those we leave behind us
Are a faithful pastor's care.
We go down to sea in ships,
And our weeping wives and daughters
Hang, at parting, on our lips,
This, our Bethel, shall remind us,
That there 's One who heareth prayer,
And that those we leave behind us
Are a faithful pastor's care.
Visions of our native highlands,
In our wave-rocked dreams embalmed,
Winds that come from spicy islands
When we long have lain becalmed,
Are not to our souls so pleasant
As the offerings we shall bring
Hither, to the Omnipresent,
For the shadow of his wing.
In our wave-rocked dreams embalmed,
Winds that come from spicy islands
When we long have lain becalmed,
144
As the offerings we shall bring
Hither, to the Omnipresent,
For the shadow of his wing.
When in port, each day that 's holy,
To this house we 'll press in throngs;
When at sea, with spirit lowly,
We 'll repeat its sacred songs.
Outward bound, shall we, in sadness,
Lose its flag behind the seas;
Homeward bound, we 'll greet with gladness
Its first floating on the breeze.
To this house we 'll press in throngs;
When at sea, with spirit lowly,
We 'll repeat its sacred songs.
Outward bound, shall we, in sadness,
Lose its flag behind the seas;
Homeward bound, we 'll greet with gladness
Its first floating on the breeze.
Homeward bound!—with deep emotion,
We remember, Lord, that life
Is a voyage upon an ocean,
Heaved by many a tempest's strife.
Be thy statutes so engraven
On our hearts and minds, that we,
Anchoring in Death's quiet haven,
All may make our home with thee.
We remember, Lord, that life
Is a voyage upon an ocean,
Heaved by many a tempest's strife.
Be thy statutes so engraven
On our hearts and minds, that we,
Anchoring in Death's quiet haven,
All may make our home with thee.
145
[VII. The winds and waves were roaring]
[_]
Written for the Dedication of the new Congregational Church in Plymouth, built upon the Ground occupied by the earliest Congregational Church in America.
The winds and waves were roaring;
The Pilgrims met for prayer;
And here, their God adoring,
They stood, in open air.
When breaking day they greeted,
And when its close was calm,
The leafless woods repeated
The music of their psalm.
The Pilgrims met for prayer;
And here, their God adoring,
They stood, in open air.
When breaking day they greeted,
And when its close was calm,
The leafless woods repeated
The music of their psalm.
Not thus, O God, to praise thee,
Do we, their children, throng;
The temple's arch we raise thee
Gives back our choral song.
Yet, on the winds, that bore thee
Their worship and their prayers,
May ours come up before thee
From hearts as true as theirs!
Do we, their children, throng;
The temple's arch we raise thee
Gives back our choral song.
Yet, on the winds, that bore thee
Their worship and their prayers,
May ours come up before thee
From hearts as true as theirs!
What have we, Lord, to bind us
To this, the Pilgrims' shore!—
Their hill of graves behind us,
Their watery way before,
The wintry surge, that dashes
Against the rocks they trod,
Their memory, and their ashes,—
Be thou their guard, O God!
To this, the Pilgrims' shore!—
Their hill of graves behind us,
Their watery way before,
146
Against the rocks they trod,
Their memory, and their ashes,—
Be thou their guard, O God!
We would not, Holy Father,
Forsake this hallowed spot,
Till on that shore we gather
Where graves and griefs are not;
The shore where true devotion
Shall rear no pillared shrine,
And see no other ocean
Than that of love divine.
Forsake this hallowed spot,
Till on that shore we gather
Where graves and griefs are not;
The shore where true devotion
Shall rear no pillared shrine,
And see no other ocean
Than that of love divine.
[VIII. Tossed on the billows of the main]
[_]
Written for the Opening of the Mariner's House in Ann Street, Boston, as a Boarding-house for Seamen, by the Ladies of “The Seaman's Aid Society,” in May, 1837.
Tossed on the billows of the main,
And doomed from zone to zone to roam,
The seaman toiled for others' gain,
But, for himself, he had no home.
And doomed from zone to zone to roam,
The seaman toiled for others' gain,
But, for himself, he had no home.
No father's door was open flung
For him, just “rescued from the wreck”;
No sister clasped her arms and hung,
In speechless joy, around his neck;
For him, just “rescued from the wreck”;
No sister clasped her arms and hung,
In speechless joy, around his neck;
147
But he was cast upon a world
More dangerous than the ocean's roar,
When o'er his bark the surges curled,
And drove it on a leeward shore.
More dangerous than the ocean's roar,
When o'er his bark the surges curled,
And drove it on a leeward shore.
He had no home;—and so had He
Who, as his bark began to fill,
Said to the Lake of Galilee,
When lashed by tempests, “Peace! Be still!”
Who, as his bark began to fill,
Said to the Lake of Galilee,
When lashed by tempests, “Peace! Be still!”
Of winds and dashing waves the sport,
By perils, while at sea, beset,
The sailor found himself, in port,
Exposed to greater perils yet.
By perils, while at sea, beset,
The sailor found himself, in port,
Exposed to greater perils yet.
False brethren were his perils there,
And perils by his countrymen,
And perils by the sirens fair
That lured him to the robber's den.
And perils by his countrymen,
And perils by the sirens fair
That lured him to the robber's den.
But now a brother
stands, in stead,
With open arms, to take him in,
And spreads a banquet and a bed
That may be tasted without sin.
With open arms, to take him in,
And spreads a banquet and a bed
That may be tasted without sin.
148
Yes!—the poor seaman hath a home!
We thank thee, God, for what we see;
Let him no more 'mid perils roam,
But come, at once, to it and thee.
We thank thee, God, for what we see;
Let him no more 'mid perils roam,
But come, at once, to it and thee.
Rev. Edward T. Taylor, (formerly a seaman,) Pastor of the Seaman's Chapel, or Bethel, and general Superintendent of the Mariner's House.
[IX. No curtains drawn, nor tent, nor shed]
No curtains drawn, nor tent, nor shed,
Shut out the over-arching skies,
When Jesus, in his manger bed,
First turned to heaven his infant eyes.
Shut out the over-arching skies,
When Jesus, in his manger bed,
First turned to heaven his infant eyes.
But quiet stars looked down, and threw,
From diamond cups, on all the ground,
Their blessed gift of light and dew,
While oxen fed or slept around.
From diamond cups, on all the ground,
Their blessed gift of light and dew,
While oxen fed or slept around.
The babe, that in that manger lay,
Hath brought a gift more blessed far
Than night dews, or the brightest ray
That ever dropped from sun or star.
Hath brought a gift more blessed far
Than night dews, or the brightest ray
That ever dropped from sun or star.
The light of truth, the dew of grace,
He giveth to a world of sin;
And to his name we give this place,
That once a mangered stall hath been.
He giveth to a world of sin;
And to his name we give this place,
That once a mangered stall hath been.
149
Not as the Magi came, of old,
With offerings to the new-born King,
Of myrrh, and frankincense, and gold,
Come we; but, Lord, this house we bring
With offerings to the new-born King,
Of myrrh, and frankincense, and gold,
Come we; but, Lord, this house we bring
To thee;—and, since thou dost prefer,
Before all temples, hearts sincere,
We pray that many a worshipper
May kneel and find acceptance here.
Before all temples, hearts sincere,
We pray that many a worshipper
May kneel and find acceptance here.
[X. On this stone, now laid with prayer]
[_]
Written on the Occasion of Laying the Corner Stone of the Suffolk Street Chapel, in Boston, for the Ministry to the Poor, May 23d, 1839.
On this stone, now laid with prayer,
Let thy church rise, strong and fair;
Ever, Lord, thy name be known,
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone.
Let thy church rise, strong and fair;
Ever, Lord, thy name be known,
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone.
Let “thy holy child,” who came
Man from error to reclaim,
And the sinner to atone
With thee, bless this Corner Stone.
Man from error to reclaim,
And the sinner to atone
With thee, bless this Corner Stone.
Let the star that stood, at first,
O'er the place where He was nursed,
And on wondering Magi shone,
Beam upon this Corner Stone.
O'er the place where He was nursed,
And on wondering Magi shone,
Beam upon this Corner Stone.
150
Let the spirit from above,
That once hovered, like a dove,
O'er the Jordan, hither flown,
Hover o'er this Corner Stone.
That once hovered, like a dove,
O'er the Jordan, hither flown,
Hover o'er this Corner Stone.
In the sinner's troubled breast,
In the heart by care oppressed,
Let the seeds of truth be sown,
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone.
In the heart by care oppressed,
Let the seeds of truth be sown,
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone.
Open wide, O God, thy door,
For the outcast and the poor,
Who can call no house their own,
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone.
For the outcast and the poor,
Who can call no house their own,
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone.
By “wise master builders” squared,
Here be living stones prepared
For the temple near thy throne;—
Jesus Christ its Corner Stone.
Here be living stones prepared
For the temple near thy throne;—
Jesus Christ its Corner Stone.
151
[XI. Knowledge and Virtue! sister powers]
Knowledge and Virtue! sister powers,
Who guard and grace a Christian state,
Better than bulwarks, walls, or towers,
To you this hall we dedicate.
Who guard and grace a Christian state,
Better than bulwarks, walls, or towers,
To you this hall we dedicate.
Temple of Science! through thy door,
Now first thrown open, do we throng,
And reverently stand before
Creation's God, with prayer and song.
Now first thrown open, do we throng,
And reverently stand before
Creation's God, with prayer and song.
Father of lights! thou gav'st us eyes
Earth, ocean, sun, and stars to see,
And thee in all;—they roll or rise
To teach us of thy majesty.
Earth, ocean, sun, and stars to see,
And thee in all;—they roll or rise
To teach us of thy majesty.
Works of his hand! where'er ye lie,
In earth or heaven, in light or shade,
These walls shall to your voice reply;
Here shall your wonders be displayed.
In earth or heaven, in light or shade,
These walls shall to your voice reply;
Here shall your wonders be displayed.
Trees! that in field or forest stand,
Flowers! that spring up in every zone,
Winds! that with fragrance fill your hand,
Where trees have leafed, or flowers have blown,—
Flowers! that spring up in every zone,
Winds! that with fragrance fill your hand,
Where trees have leafed, or flowers have blown,—
152
Suns! in the depths of space that burn,
Planets! that walk around our own,
Comets! that rush to fill your urn
With light out-gushing from his throne,—
Planets! that walk around our own,
Comets! that rush to fill your urn
With light out-gushing from his throne,—
Waters! from all the earth that rise,
And back to all its oceans go,
Cooling, in clouds, the flaming skies,
Cheering, in rains, the world below,—
And back to all its oceans go,
Cooling, in clouds, the flaming skies,
Cheering, in rains, the world below,—
Torrents! that down the mountain rush,
Glaciers! that on its shoulders shine,
Pearls! in your ocean bed that blush,
Diamonds! yet sleeping in your mine,—
Glaciers! that on its shoulders shine,
Pearls! in your ocean bed that blush,
Diamonds! yet sleeping in your mine,—
Lightnings! that from your cloud leap out,
Thunders! that in its bosom sleep,
Fires! that from Etna's crater spout,
Rocks! that the earthquake's records keep,—
Thunders! that in its bosom sleep,
Fires! that from Etna's crater spout,
Rocks! that the earthquake's records keep,—
Rainbows! that over-arch a storm,
Or dance around a waterfall,
Tornadoes! that earth's face deform,—
Teach us, O teach us, in this hall.
Or dance around a waterfall,
Tornadoes! that earth's face deform,—
Teach us, O teach us, in this hall.
153
IV.
HYMNS AND ODES FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS.
155
[I. I praise the God, who, while I kept]
[_]
Written for the Twenty-second Anniversary of the Boston Female Orphan Asylum, September 20th, 1822.
I praise the God, who, while I kept
My watch beside the grave,
Where, cold and dead, my father slept,
Where, drowned in grief, my mother wept,
An orphan stooped to save.
My watch beside the grave,
Where, cold and dead, my father slept,
Where, drowned in grief, my mother wept,
An orphan stooped to save.
He stooped to save when hope had fled;
For soon my mother's moan
Was heard no more;—when she had shed
Her last tear o'er my father's bed,
She rested in her own.
For soon my mother's moan
Was heard no more;—when she had shed
Her last tear o'er my father's bed,
She rested in her own.
When round my couch the visions pressed,
Of want, and guilt, and shame,
Then, like the spirits of the blest,
Sent forth to guide me to my rest,
The orphan's guardians came.
Of want, and guilt, and shame,
Then, like the spirits of the blest,
Sent forth to guide me to my rest,
The orphan's guardians came.
156
I thank thee, Lord, for hope's sweet ray,
To life's dark morning given;
Let it shine on through all my day;
Let virtues bloom along my way,
And let their fruits be heaven.
To life's dark morning given;
Let it shine on through all my day;
Let virtues bloom along my way,
And let their fruits be heaven.
[II. Mighty One, whose name is holy]
Mighty One, whose name is holy,
Thou wilt save thy work alive;
And the spirit of the lowly
Thou wilt visit and revive.
What thy prophets thus have spoken,
Ages witness as they roll;
Bleeding hearts and spirits broken,
Touched by thee, O God, are whole.
Thou wilt save thy work alive;
And the spirit of the lowly
Thou wilt visit and revive.
What thy prophets thus have spoken,
Ages witness as they roll;
Bleeding hearts and spirits broken,
Touched by thee, O God, are whole.
By thy pitying spirit guided,
Jesus sought the sufferer's door,
Comforts for the poor provided,
And the mourner's sorrows bore.
So, it was thy spirit, beaming
In his face whose name we bear,
That sustained him while redeeming
Power's pale victims from despair.
Jesus sought the sufferer's door,
Comforts for the poor provided,
And the mourner's sorrows bore.
So, it was thy spirit, beaming
In his face whose name we bear,
That sustained him while redeeming
Power's pale victims from despair.
157
To the prisoner, wan and wasting
In the voiceless dungeon's night,
He, thine own apostle, hasting,
Led him forth, unbound, to light.
So thy mercy's angel, bending,
Heard a friendless prisoner call,
And, through night's cold vault descending,
Loosed from chains thy servant Paul.
In the voiceless dungeon's night,
He, thine own apostle, hasting,
Led him forth, unbound, to light.
So thy mercy's angel, bending,
Heard a friendless prisoner call,
And, through night's cold vault descending,
Loosed from chains thy servant Paul.
Father, as thy love is endless,
Working by thy servants thus,
The forsaken and the friendless
Deign to visit, even by us.
So shall each, with spirit fervent,
Laboring with thee here below,
Be declared thy faithful servant,
Where there 's neither want nor woe.
Working by thy servants thus,
The forsaken and the friendless
Deign to visit, even by us.
So shall each, with spirit fervent,
Laboring with thee here below,
Be declared thy faithful servant,
Where there 's neither want nor woe.
158
[III. To the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling]
[_]
Written for the Centennial Anniversary of the Charitable Irish Society in Boston, March 17th, 1837.
To the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling,
And where the remains of our forefathers sleep,
Our eyes turn to-day, with the tears in them swelling;—
But why are we sad, who this festival keep?
We weep not for ourselves;—for our fathers, our mothers,
Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our brothers,
Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others
We may not name aloud,—'t is for these that we weep.
And where the remains of our forefathers sleep,
Our eyes turn to-day, with the tears in them swelling;—
But why are we sad, who this festival keep?
We weep not for ourselves;—for our fathers, our mothers,
Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our brothers,
Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others
We may not name aloud,—'t is for these that we weep.
Poor Ireland! how long shall thy hardly earned treasures
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge,
Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures,
Or swelling the train of a William or George!
'T is not so with thy sons on this side of the ocean;
Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion
We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion,
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge.
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge,
Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures,
Or swelling the train of a William or George!
'T is not so with thy sons on this side of the ocean;
Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion
We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion,
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge.
At evening, the blue eyes of many a maiden
In Erin are lifted to look at the star,
That is hung in the west; and the night wind is laden
With sighs for the loved ones beneath it afar.
Girls of the green isle, O do not deplore us!
In our visions ye 're swimming, like angels, before us,
And the Being, whose shield of protection is o'er us,
Hath not made the deep an impassable bar.
In Erin are lifted to look at the star,
That is hung in the west; and the night wind is laden
With sighs for the loved ones beneath it afar.
159
In our visions ye 're swimming, like angels, before us,
And the Being, whose shield of protection is o'er us,
Hath not made the deep an impassable bar.
Though absent, the fount of our faith is not frozen;
While we live, of its up-welling waters we'll draw,
For the maids that we love, for the land that we 've chosen,
Where Freedom is nursed at the bosom of Law.
“Land of the free! for the shelter thou 'st given
To those whom the storm of oppression has driven
From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from heaven!”
Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh.
While we live, of its up-welling waters we'll draw,
For the maids that we love, for the land that we 've chosen,
Where Freedom is nursed at the bosom of Law.
“Land of the free! for the shelter thou 'st given
To those whom the storm of oppression has driven
From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from heaven!”
Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh.
[IV. The fatherless and widow, Lord]
The fatherless and widow, Lord,
Find hope and comfort in this word,
Which in thy Holy Book they see,—
“Leave all thy fatherless to me.”
Find hope and comfort in this word,
Which in thy Holy Book they see,—
“Leave all thy fatherless to me.”
This checks the dying husband's sigh,
As on his wife he turns his eye,
Who, at his bed-side bends her knee,—
“And let thy widows trust in me.”
As on his wife he turns his eye,
Who, at his bed-side bends her knee,—
“And let thy widows trust in me.”
160
“Thy Maker is thy husband;”—this
Soothes the keen anguish of the kiss,
Pressed by the wife upon his brow,
Who answers not to “Husband!” now.
Soothes the keen anguish of the kiss,
Pressed by the wife upon his brow,
Who answers not to “Husband!” now.
“Orphans and fatherless are we,
Our mothers widows!”—Thus, of old,
Did Zion's children plead with Thee;
And still that mournful tale is told.
Our mothers widows!”—Thus, of old,
Did Zion's children plead with Thee;
And still that mournful tale is told.
But He hath come, who to his breast
Clasped such forsaken ones and blessed.
Here, Lord, are children left alone;—
Help us to clasp them to our own.
Clasped such forsaken ones and blessed.
Here, Lord, are children left alone;—
Help us to clasp them to our own.
And bless thy servant,
Lord, whose ear
These orphans' thanks can never hear,—
Thanks, that, although his eyes are dim,
They have a father found in him.
These orphans' thanks can never hear,—
Thanks, that, although his eyes are dim,
They have a father found in him.
Time, with his softly falling sand,
Hath closed his ear, but not his hand.
Lord, when that sand shall all have run,
Shall he not hear “Well done! Well done!”
Hath closed his ear, but not his hand.
Lord, when that sand shall all have run,
Shall he not hear “Well done! Well done!”
Father of all, our hope, our trust!
When we are sleeping in the dust,
Let others rise, to soothe and bless
The widow and the fatherless.
When we are sleeping in the dust,
Let others rise, to soothe and bless
The widow and the fatherless.
Referring to Mr. Theodore Lyman; who had made the Society a donation of $2,400, besides sundry valuable articles of food and clothing. He was aged and almost totally deaf.
161
[V. Faint, bleeding, of his robes bereft]
[_]
Written for the Twentieth Anniversary of the Female Samaritan Society, Boston, October 22d, 1837.
Faint, bleeding, of his robes bereft,
“Ready to perish” by the way,
'Mid craggy wilds by robbers left,
A lonely Jewish traveller lay.
“Ready to perish” by the way,
'Mid craggy wilds by robbers left,
A lonely Jewish traveller lay.
A priest of Judah, passing by,
The sufferer saw, and help denied.
A Levite toward him turned his eye,
And “passed by on the other side.”
The sufferer saw, and help denied.
A Levite toward him turned his eye,
And “passed by on the other side.”
A traveller from Samaria came,—
Whose nation's bosom long had burned
With hatred of the Jewish name,—
And toward the wounded stranger turned.
Whose nation's bosom long had burned
With hatred of the Jewish name,—
And toward the wounded stranger turned.
As nearer, on his beast, he drew,
A thrill of pity through him ran;—
He saw not there a hated Jew;
He only saw a suffering man.
A thrill of pity through him ran;—
He saw not there a hated Jew;
He only saw a suffering man.
He saw him;—from his own scant store
Of oil and wine he filled his cup,
From his own robe a bandage tore,
And bathed his wounds and bound them up;
Of oil and wine he filled his cup,
From his own robe a bandage tore,
And bathed his wounds and bound them up;
162
On his own beast the sufferer laid,
And to an hospitable shed
Bore him,—for all his nursing paid,
And left him on a grateful bed.
And to an hospitable shed
Bore him,—for all his nursing paid,
And left him on a grateful bed.
“Go, do thou likewise!” Thus said He,
Who gave the world this touching tale;—
We would do likewise, Lord, till we
Tread, each alone, Death's shadowy vale.
Who gave the world this touching tale;—
We would do likewise, Lord, till we
Tread, each alone, Death's shadowy vale.
[VI. Weary travellers are we]
[_]
Written for the Fair of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief of Widows and Orphans, Boston, July 4th, 1839.
Weary travellers are we,
And our word is briefly spoken;
We must lean on charity,
For our “stay and staff” is broken.
And our word is briefly spoken;
We must lean on charity,
For our “stay and staff” is broken.
We are widows;—o'er the dead
Oft we bend, to feed our sorrow;
But the grave can give no bread,
And we have none for to-morrow.
Oft we bend, to feed our sorrow;
But the grave can give no bread,
And we have none for to-morrow.
We are fatherless;—the crowd
Passes by and does not heed us.
We are hungry;—but the proud
Shelter not, nor clothe, nor feed us.
Passes by and does not heed us.
We are hungry;—but the proud
Shelter not, nor clothe, nor feed us.
163
From our loved and lost ones parted,
We are journeying on alone.
We are sick and broken-hearted,—
For our hearts were not of stone.
We are journeying on alone.
We are sick and broken-hearted,—
For our hearts were not of stone.
We would gladly serve you, neighbour,
Could we earn the coarsest meal;
But, we 're yet too young to labor;—
Must we starve,—or, must we steal?
Could we earn the coarsest meal;
But, we 're yet too young to labor;—
Must we starve,—or, must we steal?
We'll do neither!—there are, round us,
Pitying hearts and willing hands;
Woman's melting eye has found us;
She beside us pleading stands.
Pitying hearts and willing hands;
Woman's melting eye has found us;
She beside us pleading stands.
Our fair friends, here, have been vying
With each other in our aid,
Night and day their needles plying,—
See, what charming things they've made!
With each other in our aid,
Night and day their needles plying,—
See, what charming things they've made!
Let us lead you to this table,
By their fairy fingers dressed;—
As you stand here, you'll be able
To look round on all the rest.
By their fairy fingers dressed;—
As you stand here, you'll be able
To look round on all the rest.
This young lady is our sister;—
Is n't this a rare display?
There! we knew you'd not resist her;—
Pray you, Madam, step this way.
Is n't this a rare display?
There! we knew you'd not resist her;—
Pray you, Madam, step this way.
164
This good woman is our mother,
For a mother's heart is hers.
All good people help each other,
All are thus God's ministers.
For a mother's heart is hers.
All good people help each other,
All are thus God's ministers.
Friends, we have been faint and weary
Travellers on life's thorny way;
But our path looks now less dreary;
Sunshine falls upon 't to-day.
Travellers on life's thorny way;
But our path looks now less dreary;
Sunshine falls upon 't to-day.
Love's warm sunshine! How resplendent
Art thou to the Orphan boy,
Whom thou makest Independent,
On this day of general joy!
Art thou to the Orphan boy,
Whom thou makest Independent,
On this day of general joy!
[VII. Father of lights! we bless each ray]
[_]
Written for the Jubilee of Sunday Schools, celebrated by the Boston Sunday School Society, September 14th, 1831.
Father of lights! we bless each ray
Shot from thy throne to lead the blind;
With song we hail the holy day
That's dawning on the youthful mind.
Shot from thy throne to lead the blind;
With song we hail the holy day
That's dawning on the youthful mind.
Gone is the gloom! the cold eclipse,
In which the ignorant at thee gaze,
Has passed; and now from infant lips
Art thou, O God, “perfecting praise.”
In which the ignorant at thee gaze,
Has passed; and now from infant lips
Art thou, O God, “perfecting praise.”
165
Bishop of souls, whose arms were spread,
To clasp and bless such little ones,
On these be thine own spirit shed,
That they may be thy Father's sons!
To clasp and bless such little ones,
On these be thine own spirit shed,
That they may be thy Father's sons!
Friends of the young, whose toils are o'er,
Taste ye in heaven a purer bliss,
Or one that now ye cherish more,
Than that which comes from days like this?
Taste ye in heaven a purer bliss,
Or one that now ye cherish more,
Than that which comes from days like this?
Author of life! when death's cold hand
Is gently on our eyelids pressed,
May sorrowing children round us stand,—
The children whom our cares have blessed.
Is gently on our eyelids pressed,
May sorrowing children round us stand,—
The children whom our cares have blessed.
[VIII. Shall that old chamber be forgot]
[_]
Written for the Thirteenth Anniversary of the Howard Sunday School, Boston, December 10th, 1839.
Shall that old chamber
be forgot,
Where first the light divine
Shone on our infant Sunday School,
So pleasant, but lang syne?
'T was pleasant, but lang syne, my friends,
'T was pleasant, but lang syne,
We'll not forget that chamber where
We prayed and sung lang syne.
Where first the light divine
Shone on our infant Sunday School,
So pleasant, but lang syne?
'T was pleasant, but lang syne, my friends,
'T was pleasant, but lang syne,
We'll not forget that chamber where
We prayed and sung lang syne.
166
Shall Friend-Street Chapel be forgot,
To which, in lengthening line,
When that old room was full, we marched,
In twenty eight or nine?
O, that appears lang syne, my friends,
But, though it was lang syne,
We'll not forget the Chapel where
We used to meet lang syne.
To which, in lengthening line,
When that old room was full, we marched,
In twenty eight or nine?
O, that appears lang syne, my friends,
But, though it was lang syne,
We'll not forget the Chapel where
We used to meet lang syne.
Shall our old teachers be forgot,
Whose voice and look benign
First drew us to the Sabbath School,
And taught us there lang syne?
O, was not that lang syne, my friends,
O, was it not lang syne?
But still we thank and bless them all,
For teaching us lang syne.
Whose voice and look benign
First drew us to the Sabbath School,
And taught us there lang syne?
O, was not that lang syne, my friends,
O, was it not lang syne?
But still we thank and bless them all,
For teaching us lang syne.
Some of those voices death hath hushed,
And closed those kindly eyen,
That were so cheering to our hearts,
When we were sad lang syne.
O, was not that lang syne, my friends?
It was, indeed, lang syne;
And heavenly hymns those voices sing,
That sung with us lang syne.
And closed those kindly eyen,
That were so cheering to our hearts,
When we were sad lang syne.
O, was not that lang syne, my friends?
It was, indeed, lang syne;
And heavenly hymns those voices sing,
That sung with us lang syne.
Our white-haired Pastor,
should he soon
Earth's toils and joys resign,
Shall be remembered by us all,
For what he did lang syne.
O, how he loved us all, my friends,
He loved us all lang syne,
And great be his reward in heaven,
For loving us lang syne!
Earth's toils and joys resign,
Shall be remembered by us all,
For what he did lang syne.
167
He loved us all lang syne,
And great be his reward in heaven,
For loving us lang syne!
Nor be our present friends forgot,
Who work the Gospel mine,
Where Christ and his apostles dropped
The gems of truth lang syne.
O, that was lang, lang syne, my friends,
Yes, that was lang, lang syne,
But still those gems are just as bright,
As were they lang, lang syne.
Who work the Gospel mine,
Where Christ and his apostles dropped
The gems of truth lang syne.
O, that was lang, lang syne, my friends,
Yes, that was lang, lang syne,
But still those gems are just as bright,
As were they lang, lang syne.
O Father! with those gems, more rich
Than gold or silver fine,
Be all our spirits crowned, as were
Thy Son's and saints' lang syne.
They've worn their crowns lang syne, O God,
They've worn their crowns lang syne;
O, help us tread the paths they trod,
While serving thee lang syne!
Than gold or silver fine,
Be all our spirits crowned, as were
Thy Son's and saints' lang syne.
They've worn their crowns lang syne, O God,
They've worn their crowns lang syne;
O, help us tread the paths they trod,
While serving thee lang syne!
168
[IX. Spirit of Wisdom and of Power]
[_]
Written for the Fifth Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, October 4th, 1821.
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power!
The works of Egypt's mightiest hour,—
The pyramid and vaulted tomb,—
The peerless fane of David's son,
The giant towers of Babylon,—
Old works of grandeur and of gloom,—
The works of Egypt's mightiest hour,—
The pyramid and vaulted tomb,—
The peerless fane of David's son,
The giant towers of Babylon,—
Old works of grandeur and of gloom,—
The curtained ark, the jewelled vest
That gleamed of old on Aaron's breast,
Works for their glorious beauty famed;
All these, by thine informing mind,
In strength were reared, with skill designed,
And lead our thoughts to thee when named.
That gleamed of old on Aaron's breast,
Works for their glorious beauty famed;
All these, by thine informing mind,
In strength were reared, with skill designed,
And lead our thoughts to thee when named.
Lone columns on the Ionian shore,
And sculptured ruins scattered o'er
Athenian and Corinthian plains,
Of thy departed spirit speak,
That shed a glory round the Greek,
And threw its last light on his chains.
And sculptured ruins scattered o'er
Athenian and Corinthian plains,
Of thy departed spirit speak,
That shed a glory round the Greek,
And threw its last light on his chains.
The conqueror's arch, the temple's dome,
Of pagan and of Christian Rome,
Thy kindling spirit taught to swell;
And many a tall monastic pile,
Still frowning o'er our fathers' Isle,
Of thy past inspirations tell.
Of pagan and of Christian Rome,
169
And many a tall monastic pile,
Still frowning o'er our fathers' Isle,
Of thy past inspirations tell.
The arts that bid our navies ride
And thunder o'er the trackless tide,
The arts of dove-winged Peace, are thine.
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power!
Be thou our undecaying tower,
And our adoring hearts thy shrine.
And thunder o'er the trackless tide,
The arts of dove-winged Peace, are thine.
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power!
Be thou our undecaying tower,
And our adoring hearts thy shrine.
[X. Now to the God to whom all might]
Now to the God to whom all might
And glory in all worlds belong,
Who fills unseen his throne of light,
Come, let us sing a general song.
And glory in all worlds belong,
Who fills unseen his throne of light,
Come, let us sing a general song.
His spirit wrapped the mantling air,
Of old, around our infant Earth,
And, on her bosom warm and fair,
Gave her young lord his joyous birth.
Of old, around our infant Earth,
And, on her bosom warm and fair,
Gave her young lord his joyous birth.
He smiles on morning's rosy way;
He paints the gorgeous clouds of even;
To noon he gives its ripening ray;
To night, the view of glorious heaven.
He paints the gorgeous clouds of even;
To noon he gives its ripening ray;
To night, the view of glorious heaven.
170
He drives along those sparkling globes
In circles of unerring truth;
He decks them all in radiant robes,
And crowns them with eternal youth.
In circles of unerring truth;
He decks them all in radiant robes,
And crowns them with eternal youth.
So will he crown the upright mind,
When life and all its toils are o'er;—
Then let his praise, on every wind,
Rise, till the winds shall wake no more.
When life and all its toils are o'er;—
Then let his praise, on every wind,
Rise, till the winds shall wake no more.
[XI. Loud o'er thy savage child]
[_]
Written for the Seventh Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, October 4th, 1827.
Loud o'er thy savage child,
O God, the night-wind roared,
As, houseless, in the wild
He bowed him and adored.
Thou saw'st him there,
As to the sky
He raised his eye
In fear and prayer.
O God, the night-wind roared,
As, houseless, in the wild
He bowed him and adored.
Thou saw'st him there,
As to the sky
He raised his eye
In fear and prayer.
Thine inspiration came!
And, grateful for thine aid,
An altar to thy name
He built beneath the shade.
The limbs of larch,
That darkened round,
He bent and bound
In many an arch;
And, grateful for thine aid,
An altar to thy name
He built beneath the shade.
171
That darkened round,
He bent and bound
In many an arch;
Till, in a sylvan fane,
Went up the voice of prayer,
And music's simple strain
Arose in worship there.
The arching boughs,
The roof of leaves
That summer weaves,
O'erheard his vows.
Went up the voice of prayer,
And music's simple strain
Arose in worship there.
The arching boughs,
The roof of leaves
That summer weaves,
O'erheard his vows.
Then beamed a brighter day;
And Salem's holy height
And Greece in glory lay
Beneath the kindling light.
Thy temple rose
On Salem's hill,
While Grecian skill
Adorned thy foes.
And Salem's holy height
And Greece in glory lay
Beneath the kindling light.
Thy temple rose
On Salem's hill,
While Grecian skill
Adorned thy foes.
Along those rocky shores,
Along those olive plains,
Where pilgrim Genius pores
O'er art's sublime remains,
Long colonnades
Of snowy white
Looked forth in light
Through classic shades.
Along those olive plains,
Where pilgrim Genius pores
O'er art's sublime remains,
Long colonnades
Of snowy white
Looked forth in light
Through classic shades.
172
Forth from the quarry stone
The marble goddess sprung;
And, loosely round her thrown,
Her marble vesture hung;
And forth from cold
And sunless mines
Came silver shrines
And gods of gold.
The marble goddess sprung;
And, loosely round her thrown,
Her marble vesture hung;
And forth from cold
And sunless mines
Came silver shrines
And gods of gold.
The Star of Bethlehem burned!
And, where he Stoic trod,
The altar was o'erturned,
Raised “to an unknown God.”
And now there are
No idol fanes
On all the plains
Beneath that star.
And, where he Stoic trod,
The altar was o'erturned,
Raised “to an unknown God.”
And now there are
No idol fanes
On all the plains
Beneath that star.
To honor thee, dread Power!
Our strength and skill combine;
And temple, tomb, and tower
Attest these gifts divine.
A swelling dome
For pride they gild,
For peace they build
An humbler home.
Our strength and skill combine;
And temple, tomb, and tower
Attest these gifts divine.
A swelling dome
For pride they gild,
For peace they build
An humbler home.
By these our fathers' host
Was led to victory first,
When, on our guardless coast,
The cloud of battle burst,
Through storm and spray,
By these controlled,
Our navies hold
Their thundering way.
Was led to victory first,
When, on our guardless coast,
The cloud of battle burst,
173
By these controlled,
Our navies hold
Their thundering way.
Great Source of every art!
Our homes, our pictured halls,
Our thronged and busy mart,
That lifts its granite walls,
And shoots to heaven
Its glittering spires,
To catch the fires
Of morn and even,—
Our homes, our pictured halls,
Our thronged and busy mart,
That lifts its granite walls,
And shoots to heaven
Its glittering spires,
To catch the fires
Of morn and even,—
These, and the breathing forms
The brush or chisel gives,
With this when marble warms,
With that when canvass lives,—
These all combine
In countless ways
To swell thy praise,
For all are thine.
The brush or chisel gives,
With this when marble warms,
With that when canvass lives,—
These all combine
In countless ways
To swell thy praise,
For all are thine.
174
[XII. Not with a conqueror's song]
[_]
Written for the First Fair and Exhibition of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, September 20th, 1837.
Not with a conqueror's song
Thy courts, O God, we throng,
For battles gained;
No cannon's sulphurous throat,
No trumpet, gives its note,
No banners o'er us float,
With fresh blood stained.
Thy courts, O God, we throng,
For battles gained;
No cannon's sulphurous throat,
No trumpet, gives its note,
No banners o'er us float,
With fresh blood stained.
Over no captive kings,
Our eagle spreads her wings,
Or whets her beak;
Nor, o'er the battle-plain,
Where death-shot fell, like rain,
Where lie in gore the slain,
Comes her shrill shriek.
Our eagle spreads her wings,
Or whets her beak;
Nor, o'er the battle-plain,
Where death-shot fell, like rain,
Where lie in gore the slain,
Comes her shrill shriek.
For Art, which thou hast given,
The tribute due to Heaven
We come to pay;
Art, that, to deck her halls,
On air and vapor calls,
On winds and water-falls,
And all obey.
The tribute due to Heaven
We come to pay;
Art, that, to deck her halls,
On air and vapor calls,
On winds and water-falls,
And all obey.
175
Art, that, from shore to shore,
Moves, without sail or oar,
'Gainst winds and tides;
Or, high o'er earth and seas,
Sits in her car at ease,
And heavenward, on the breeze,
Triumphant rides.
Moves, without sail or oar,
'Gainst winds and tides;
Or, high o'er earth and seas,
Sits in her car at ease,
And heavenward, on the breeze,
Triumphant rides.
Art, that, through mountain bars,
Breaks, that her horseless cars
Self-moved may go;
And, without looking back,
Rolls, on her iron track,
Where the white cataract
Thunders below.
Breaks, that her horseless cars
Self-moved may go;
And, without looking back,
Rolls, on her iron track,
Where the white cataract
Thunders below.
Art, that on spool or reel,
Winds the smooth silk or steel
Spun by her hand,
Then, with her touch of fire,
Draws, from the chord or wire,
Tones that an angel quire
Well might demand.
Winds the smooth silk or steel
Spun by her hand,
Then, with her touch of fire,
Draws, from the chord or wire,
Tones that an angel quire
Well might demand.
Art, that to thee, Most High!
Gladly doth sanctify
Her works and powers;
Lord, ere our tongues are still,
Our hands forget their skill,
To thy most holy will
Devote we ours.
Gladly doth sanctify
Her works and powers;
Lord, ere our tongues are still,
Our hands forget their skill,
To thy most holy will
Devote we ours.
177
V.
HYMNS AND ODES FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS.
179
[I. Wake! wake! friends of your kind]
[_]
Written for the Anniversary of the Massachusetts Society for the Suppression of Intemperance, in Boston, May 23d, 1832.
Wake! wake! friends of your kind!
There's a Demon, a Demon, abroad!
Ye'll scent him in every breath of the wind;—
Around him is woe;—Death and Hell are behind!—
The foe of man and of God.
The Prince of the devils is it,
Escaped from the bottomless pit,—
Escaped, in his wrath or his mirth,
To put out the lights of the earth.
There's a Demon, a Demon, abroad!
Ye'll scent him in every breath of the wind;—
Around him is woe;—Death and Hell are behind!—
The foe of man and of God.
The Prince of the devils is it,
Escaped from the bottomless pit,—
Escaped, in his wrath or his mirth,
To put out the lights of the earth.
Watch! watch!—Creeping by stealth,
Like the serpent through Eden's shades,
The mansions of peace, and of worth, and of wealth,
Assuming the form of “a spirit of health,”
This “goblin damned” invades.
He claims,—and his claim is allowed!—
The young, and the fair, and the proud;
He claims, and he brands them as slaves,
And drags them all down to their graves!
Like the serpent through Eden's shades,
The mansions of peace, and of worth, and of wealth,
Assuming the form of “a spirit of health,”
This “goblin damned” invades.
He claims,—and his claim is allowed!—
The young, and the fair, and the proud;
He claims, and he brands them as slaves,
And drags them all down to their graves!
180
Hark! hark! Hear ye the chain,
That is clanking in yonder cell?
The Demon is there with the felon insane;
He is tearing a heart,—he is burning a brain!—
That shriek is a maniac's yell!
That long, heart-rending moan
Is a wife's,—she is sitting alone;
The man, on whose arm she has leaned,
Has left her, to worship the Fiend!
That is clanking in yonder cell?
The Demon is there with the felon insane;
He is tearing a heart,—he is burning a brain!—
That shriek is a maniac's yell!
That long, heart-rending moan
Is a wife's,—she is sitting alone;
The man, on whose arm she has leaned,
Has left her, to worship the Fiend!
Arm! arm! good men and bold!
'T is a question of life or death;
His banners are floating! beneath are enrolled
Your brothers, your fathers, your children,—all sold,
(Bear witness their tainted breath!)
As victims that soon shall expire
In the flames of unquenchable fire,—
Expire on his altar accursed,
In the fire of unquenchable thirst!
On! on! The fall is decreed
'T is a question of life or death;
His banners are floating! beneath are enrolled
Your brothers, your fathers, your children,—all sold,
(Bear witness their tainted breath!)
As victims that soon shall expire
In the flames of unquenchable fire,—
Expire on his altar accursed,
In the fire of unquenchable thirst!
On! on! The fall is decreed
On! on! The fall is decreed
Of the throne of the Evil One.
At his feet shall immortals by hecatombs bleed?
His vassals already cry out to be freed,—
Resolve! and the work is done.
Resolve! and the pits that yawn,
From dewy eve till dawn,
That spirits infernal may rise,
No more shall insult the skies.
Of the throne of the Evil One.
At his feet shall immortals by hecatombs bleed?
His vassals already cry out to be freed,—
Resolve! and the work is done.
Resolve! and the pits that yawn,
From dewy eve till dawn,
That spirits infernal may rise,
No more shall insult the skies.
181
II.
LICENSE LAWS.
“We license thee, for so much gold,”
Says Congress,—they're our servants there,—
“To keep a pen where men are sold
Of sable skin and woolly hair;
For ‘public good’ requires the toil
Of slaves on Freedom's sacred soil.”
Says Congress,—they're our servants there,—
“To keep a pen where men are sold
Of sable skin and woolly hair;
For ‘public good’ requires the toil
Of slaves on Freedom's sacred soil.”
“For so much gold we license thee,”
So say our laws, “a draught to sell,
That bows the strong, enslaves the free,
And opens wide the gates of hell;
For ‘public good’ requires that some
Should live, since many die, by rum.”
So say our laws, “a draught to sell,
That bows the strong, enslaves the free,
And opens wide the gates of hell;
For ‘public good’ requires that some
Should live, since many die, by rum.”
182
Ye civil fathers! while the foes
Of this destroyer seize their swords,
And Heaven's own hail is in the blows
They're dealing,—will YE cut the cords
That round the falling fiend they draw,
And o'er him hold your shield of law?
Of this destroyer seize their swords,
And Heaven's own hail is in the blows
They're dealing,—will YE cut the cords
That round the falling fiend they draw,
And o'er him hold your shield of law?
And will ye give to man a bill
Divorcing him from Heaven's high sway,
And, while God says, “Thou shalt not kill,”—
Say ye, for gold, “Ye may,—ye may”?
Compare the body with the soul!
Compare the bullet with the bowl!
Divorcing him from Heaven's high sway,
And, while God says, “Thou shalt not kill,”—
Say ye, for gold, “Ye may,—ye may”?
Compare the body with the soul!
Compare the bullet with the bowl!
In which is felt the fiercer blast
Of the destroying angel's breath?
Which binds its victim the more fast?
Which kills him with the deadlier death?
Will ye the felon fox restrain,
And yet take off the tiger's chain?
Of the destroying angel's breath?
Which binds its victim the more fast?
Which kills him with the deadlier death?
Will ye the felon fox restrain,
And yet take off the tiger's chain?
The living to the rotting dead
The God-contemning Tuscan tied,
Till, by the way, or on his bed,
The poor corpse-carrier drooped and died,—
Lashed hand to hand, and face to face,
In fatal and in loathed embrace.
The God-contemning Tuscan tied,
Till, by the way, or on his bed,
The poor corpse-carrier drooped and died,—
Lashed hand to hand, and face to face,
In fatal and in loathed embrace.
183
Less cutting, think ye, is the thong
That to a breathing corpse, for life,
Lashes, in torture loathed and long,
The drunkard's child,—the drunkard's wife?
To clasp that clay,—to breathe that breath,—
And no escape! O, that is death!
That to a breathing corpse, for life,
Lashes, in torture loathed and long,
The drunkard's child,—the drunkard's wife?
To clasp that clay,—to breathe that breath,—
And no escape! O, that is death!
Are ye not fathers? When your sons
Look to you for their daily bread,
Dare ye, in mockery, load with stones
The table that for them ye spread?
How can ye hope your sons will live,
If ye, for fish, a serpent give?
Look to you for their daily bread,
Dare ye, in mockery, load with stones
The table that for them ye spread?
How can ye hope your sons will live,
If ye, for fish, a serpent give?
O, Holy God! let light divine
Break forth more broadly from above,
Till we conform our laws to thine,
The perfect law of truth and love;
For truth and love alone can save
Thy children from a hopeless grave.
Break forth more broadly from above,
Till we conform our laws to thine,
The perfect law of truth and love;
For truth and love alone can save
Thy children from a hopeless grave.
Four hundred dollars is the sum, prescribed by Congress,— the local legislature of the District of Columbia,—for a license to keep a prison-house and market, for the sale of men, women, and children. See Jay's “View of the Action of the Federal Government in behalf of Slavery,” p. 87.
Whether the sin of slavery, or “the slavery of sin,” is the more proper object of legislative protection, it is for our rulers in the State House and the City Hall to determine. To their consciences the question is respectfully referred. The time is coming when they must answer it.
184
[III. Thou sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl]
[_]
Written for the Simultaneous Temperance Meeting, in the Old South Church in Boston, February 24th, 1835.
Thou sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl!
Though lips of bards thy brim may press,
And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll,
And song and dance thy power confess,
I will not touch thee; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side, that stings!
Though lips of bards thy brim may press,
And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll,
And song and dance thy power confess,
I will not touch thee; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side, that stings!
Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree,
Thy melted ruby tempts the eye,
And, as from that, there comes from thee
The voice, “Thou shalt not surely die.”
I dare not lift thy liquid gem;—
A snake is twisted round thy stem!
Thy melted ruby tempts the eye,
And, as from that, there comes from thee
The voice, “Thou shalt not surely die.”
I dare not lift thy liquid gem;—
A snake is twisted round thy stem!
Thou liquid fire! like that which glowed
On Melita's surf-beaten shore,
Thou'st been upon my guests bestowed,
But thou shalt warm my house no more.
For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls,
Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls!
On Melita's surf-beaten shore,
Thou'st been upon my guests bestowed,
But thou shalt warm my house no more.
For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls,
Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls!
185
What, though of gold the goblet be,
Embossed with branches of the vine,
Beneath whose burnished leaves we see
Such clusters as poured out the wine?
Among those leaves an adder hangs!
I fear him;—for I've felt his fangs.
Embossed with branches of the vine,
Beneath whose burnished leaves we see
Such clusters as poured out the wine?
Among those leaves an adder hangs!
I fear him;—for I've felt his fangs.
The Hebrew, who the desert trod,
And felt the fiery serpent's bite,
Looked up to that ordained of God,
And found that life was in the sight.
So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins
Cool, when he drinks what God ordains.
And felt the fiery serpent's bite,
Looked up to that ordained of God,
And found that life was in the sight.
So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins
Cool, when he drinks what God ordains.
Ye gracious clouds! ye deep, cold wells!
Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip!
Springs, that from Earth's mysterious cells
Gush o'er your granite basin's lip!
To you I look;—your largess give,
And I will drink of you, and live.
Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip!
Springs, that from Earth's mysterious cells
Gush o'er your granite basin's lip!
To you I look;—your largess give,
And I will drink of you, and live.
186
[IV. How long, O God, how long]
How long, O God, how long
Must thy pure eyes behold
This fair world blasted by the wrong,
Man does to man for gold?
How long shall Reason be cast down,
And a fierce demon wear her crown?
Must thy pure eyes behold
This fair world blasted by the wrong,
Man does to man for gold?
How long shall Reason be cast down,
And a fierce demon wear her crown?
The prisoner's cell, that all
Life's blessed light bedims,
The lash that cuts, the links that gall,
The poor slaves' festering limbs,—
What is this thraldom, to the chain
That binds and burns the drunkard's brain?
Life's blessed light bedims,
The lash that cuts, the links that gall,
The poor slaves' festering limbs,—
What is this thraldom, to the chain
That binds and burns the drunkard's brain?
If, then, thy frown is felt,
O God, by those who bind
The body,—what must be the guilt
Of such as chain the mind,
Drag to the pit, and plunge it in!
O have not these “the greater sin”?
O God, by those who bind
The body,—what must be the guilt
Of such as chain the mind,
Drag to the pit, and plunge it in!
O have not these “the greater sin”?
187
The mother of our race,
Whose sin brought death and woe,
Yet, in her weakness, found thy grace;—
The Tempter's curse we know.
Doth he who drinks, wrong most the soul?
Or he who tempts him to the bowl?
Whose sin brought death and woe,
Yet, in her weakness, found thy grace;—
The Tempter's curse we know.
Doth he who drinks, wrong most the soul?
Or he who tempts him to the bowl?
Help us, O God, to weigh
Our deeds as in thy scales;
Nor let gold dust the balance sway;—
For good o'er gold prevails
At that dread bar where all must look
Upon the record in THY Book.
Our deeds as in thy scales;
Nor let gold dust the balance sway;—
For good o'er gold prevails
At that dread bar where all must look
Upon the record in THY Book.
[V. In Eden's green retreats]
In Eden's green retreats,
A water-brook,—that played
Between soft, mossy seats,
Beneath a plane-tree's shade,
Whose rustling leaves
Danced o'er its brink,—
Was Adam's drink,
And also Eve's.
A water-brook,—that played
Between soft, mossy seats,
Beneath a plane-tree's shade,
Whose rustling leaves
Danced o'er its brink,—
Was Adam's drink,
And also Eve's.
188
Beside the parent spring
Of that young brook, the pair
Their morning chant would sing;
And Eve, to dress her hair,
Kneel on the grass
That fringed its side,
And make its tide
Her looking-glass.
Of that young brook, the pair
Their morning chant would sing;
And Eve, to dress her hair,
Kneel on the grass
That fringed its side,
And make its tide
Her looking-glass.
And, when the man of God
From Egypt led his flock,
They thirsted, and his rod
Smote the Arabian rock,
And forth a rill
Of water gushed,
And on they rushed,
And drank their fill.
From Egypt led his flock,
They thirsted, and his rod
Smote the Arabian rock,
And forth a rill
Of water gushed,
And on they rushed,
And drank their fill.
Would Eden thus have smiled,
Had wine to Eden come?
Would Horeb's parching wild
Have been refreshed with rum?
And had Eve's hair
Been dressed in gin,
Would she have been
Reflected fair?
Had wine to Eden come?
Would Horeb's parching wild
Have been refreshed with rum?
And had Eve's hair
Been dressed in gin,
Would she have been
Reflected fair?
Had Moses built a still,
And dealt out to that host,
To every man his gill,
And pledged him in a toast,
Would cooler brains,
Or stronger hands,
Have braved the sands
Of those hot plains?
And dealt out to that host,
To every man his gill,
And pledged him in a toast,
189
Or stronger hands,
Have braved the sands
Of those hot plains?
“Sweet fields, beyond” death's flood
“Stand dressed in living green;”
For, from the throne of God,
To freshen all the scene,
A river rolls,
Where all who will
May come and fill
Their crystal bowls.
“Stand dressed in living green;”
For, from the throne of God,
To freshen all the scene,
A river rolls,
Where all who will
May come and fill
Their crystal bowls.
If Eden's strength and bloom
Cold Water thus hath given,
If, even beyond the tomb,
It is the drink of heaven,
Are not good wells
And crystal springs
The very things
For our Hotels?
Cold Water thus hath given,
If, even beyond the tomb,
It is the drink of heaven,
Are not good wells
And crystal springs
The very things
For our Hotels?
190
[VI. Dash to the floor that bowl]
[_]
Written for the Ninth Anniversary of the New York State Temperance Society, in Albany, February 8th, 1838.
Dash to the floor that bowl!
Dare not its sweets to sip!
There's peril to the soul,
If once it touch the lip.
Why will ye drown
The God within?
Avoid the sin!
Ay, dash it down!
Dare not its sweets to sip!
There's peril to the soul,
If once it touch the lip.
Why will ye drown
The God within?
Avoid the sin!
Ay, dash it down!
Once, to the exiled John
A poisoned cup was brought.
The bearer had withdrawn;—
The saint, by angels taught,
Saw, o'er its brim,
An asp's head rise,
Whose burning eyes
Were fixed on him.
A poisoned cup was brought.
The bearer had withdrawn;—
The saint, by angels taught,
Saw, o'er its brim,
An asp's head rise,
Whose burning eyes
Were fixed on him.
So Truth, by whose bright blaze
Is many a secret sin
Revealed, in these our days
Hath taught us, that, within
That narrow span,
The wine-cup's grasp,
There lives an asp,
There dies a man!
Is many a secret sin
Revealed, in these our days
Hath taught us, that, within
191
The wine-cup's grasp,
There lives an asp,
There dies a man!
Then let no fire be brought,
In goblet, glass, or bowl,
Within “the dome of thought,
The palace of the soul;”
Lest, in that fire
Of burning drink,
That palace sink,
That soul expire.
In goblet, glass, or bowl,
Within “the dome of thought,
The palace of the soul;”
Lest, in that fire
Of burning drink,
That palace sink,
That soul expire.
Should God, in wrath, ordain
A universal dearth,
What need he do, but rain
On all this green, glad earth,
From cloudy urns,
The curse that fills
Our vats and stills,
That blights and burns?
A universal dearth,
What need he do, but rain
On all this green, glad earth,
From cloudy urns,
The curse that fills
Our vats and stills,
That blights and burns?
Save us from such a shower,
God of the eastern bow!
That pledge, of love and power,
What bends, what paints it so?
That bow in air
'T is light that bends,
Heaven's light, that blends
With water there.
God of the eastern bow!
That pledge, of love and power,
What bends, what paints it so?
That bow in air
'T is light that bends,
Heaven's light, that blends
With water there.
192
Let light on water shine,—
The light of love and truth!
Then shall that drink divine
Be quaffed by Age and Youth;
And, as that bow
Doth heavenward bend,
Shall heavenward tend
The way they go.
The light of love and truth!
Then shall that drink divine
Be quaffed by Age and Youth;
And, as that bow
Doth heavenward bend,
Shall heavenward tend
The way they go.
[VII. We sing the praise of Water]
[_]
Written for the Juvenile Celebration of the Simultaneous Meeting of the Friends of Temperance, throughout the World, at the Odeon in Boston, February 27th, 1838.
We sing the praise of Water;
Come, every son and daughter
Of Freedom's land!
With such a theme before us,
With God's great shield held o'er us,
Who will not join the chorus
Of our young band?
Come, every son and daughter
Of Freedom's land!
With such a theme before us,
With God's great shield held o'er us,
Who will not join the chorus
Of our young band?
Yon silver fountain's basin,
'T is sweet to see thy face in,
Fair harvest moon!
And, when the sun has shone in,
On the white pebbles thrown in,
'T is sweet to see our own in,
At sultry noon.
'T is sweet to see thy face in,
Fair harvest moon!
And, when the sun has shone in,
On the white pebbles thrown in,
'T is sweet to see our own in,
At sultry noon.
193
Sweet is the light that quivers
On water brooks and rivers;
Fresh are the trees
Whose feet the wave caresses,
And fresh the bloom that dresses
Their loose and fragrant tresses
For evening's breeze.
On water brooks and rivers;
Fresh are the trees
Whose feet the wave caresses,
And fresh the bloom that dresses
Their loose and fragrant tresses
For evening's breeze.
Grateful the cloud that over
Wide fields of blooming clover
Swims, charged with rain;
Grateful the rill that gushes
From heights where day first blushes,
And down the hill-side rushes
To bless the plain.
Wide fields of blooming clover
Swims, charged with rain;
Grateful the rill that gushes
From heights where day first blushes,
And down the hill-side rushes
To bless the plain.
Streams of the wood-crowned mountain,
Children of cloud and fountain,
Who dance and sing
O'er snow-beds iced and glossy,
O'er rocks with green tufts bossy,
Down paths all clean and mossy!
Your tribute bring.
Children of cloud and fountain,
Who dance and sing
O'er snow-beds iced and glossy,
O'er rocks with green tufts bossy,
Down paths all clean and mossy!
Your tribute bring.
To all earth's sons and daughters
“The circuit of the waters”
Gives joy and health;
Floats the gay barge of pleasure,
And, without stint or measure,
Wafts on that heavenly treasure,
True Wisdom's Wealth.
“The circuit of the waters”
Gives joy and health;
Floats the gay barge of pleasure,
And, without stint or measure,
Wafts on that heavenly treasure,
True Wisdom's Wealth.
194
[VIII. Let the trump of Fame]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of National Independence on Temperance Principles, in Fanueil Hall, Boston, July 4th, 1839.
Let the trump of Fame
Now to their memory swell,
Who, in Freedom's name,
Fought and bravely fell!
On the heroes moved,
With death on every side;—
For the land they loved
They died,—they died.
Round the names of all,
Shall honor's chaplets green,
Here, in Freedom's Hall,
Freshly wreathed be seen,
Till all the nations raise
The shout, like ocean's roar,
That Right our sceptre sways,
And “Slavery reigns no more.”
Now to their memory swell,
Who, in Freedom's name,
Fought and bravely fell!
On the heroes moved,
With death on every side;—
For the land they loved
They died,—they died.
Round the names of all,
Shall honor's chaplets green,
Here, in Freedom's Hall,
Freshly wreathed be seen,
Till all the nations raise
The shout, like ocean's roar,
That Right our sceptre sways,
And “Slavery reigns no more.”
When the patriot dead,
Who, in their glory rest,
From their lowly bed,
In ghostly garments drest,
Come up, and, at our call,
This festive board surround,—
Shall they see this Hall
In wassail drowned?
Can man, to Freedom true,
Prove false to Virtue's laws?—
In our fathers' view
Come, pledge the Temperance Cause!
Wine is Freedom's foe!
Hence let the recreant fly,
Lest, by the traitor's blow,
She, in HER CRADLE, die!
Who, in their glory rest,
From their lowly bed,
In ghostly garments drest,
195
This festive board surround,—
Shall they see this Hall
In wassail drowned?
Can man, to Freedom true,
Prove false to Virtue's laws?—
In our fathers' view
Come, pledge the Temperance Cause!
Wine is Freedom's foe!
Hence let the recreant fly,
Lest, by the traitor's blow,
She, in HER CRADLE, die!
[IX. Lift up, lift up the standard]
Lift up, lift up the standard,
And plant it near the well!
And, gathered underneath its folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem that is set in praise
Of brooks and cisterns sing!
Give one strain to the rain,
Give another to the spring;—
Yea, give a chorus loud and long
To aqueduct and spring.
And plant it near the well!
And, gathered underneath its folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem that is set in praise
Of brooks and cisterns sing!
Give one strain to the rain,
Give another to the spring;—
Yea, give a chorus loud and long
To aqueduct and spring.
196
Green hills and smiling valleys!
Ye once were red with gore,
When Freedom's thunders o'er you rolled,
And broke along our shore.
The holy skies have poured their rains,
And sifted down their snows,
Till the stain of the slain,
That beneath your turf repose,
Is washed away, and the sods are clean,
Where the martyred brave repose.
Ye once were red with gore,
When Freedom's thunders o'er you rolled,
And broke along our shore.
The holy skies have poured their rains,
And sifted down their snows,
Till the stain of the slain,
That beneath your turf repose,
Is washed away, and the sods are clean,
Where the martyred brave repose.
Even so will ice and water
Make clean our living clay;—
Then let them grace our festive board
On Independence day;—
The day that tells us of the blood
That was, like water, poured
From their veins, on the plains
Where our fathers grasped the sword,
Where the cumbrous sheath was thrown away,
And flashed the freeman's sword.
Make clean our living clay;—
Then let them grace our festive board
On Independence day;—
The day that tells us of the blood
That was, like water, poured
From their veins, on the plains
Where our fathers grasped the sword,
Where the cumbrous sheath was thrown away,
And flashed the freeman's sword.
Ye heroes of the bottle,
Who “bumper” every toast,
Who keep your wine in cobwebs wrapped,
And make its age your boast,
The oldest wine your vaults have known
From press or vat to flow,
Is new to the dew
That six thousand years ago
Came down to fill our cups, one night,
Six thousand years ago.
Who “bumper” every toast,
Who keep your wine in cobwebs wrapped,
And make its age your boast,
The oldest wine your vaults have known
From press or vat to flow,
Is new to the dew
That six thousand years ago
Came down to fill our cups, one night,
Six thousand years ago.
197
Ye champions of cold water,
Who quaff that drink divine,
Who 've given your rum and brandy o'er,
And bid adieu to wine,
The bottles that ye crack to-day,
By God's own hand are given;
Some in earth have their birth,
And some are made in heaven;
The granite rock and spring are those,
And these the clouds of heaven.
Who quaff that drink divine,
Who 've given your rum and brandy o'er,
And bid adieu to wine,
The bottles that ye crack to-day,
By God's own hand are given;
Some in earth have their birth,
And some are made in heaven;
The granite rock and spring are those,
And these the clouds of heaven.
Then, UP the Temperance standard!
And plant it by the well,
And, shaded by its waving folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem that is set to chime
With babbling waters sing,
Give one strain to the rain,
Give another to the spring,
Yea, give a chorus loud and long,
To aqueduct and spring!
And plant it by the well,
And, shaded by its waving folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem that is set to chime
With babbling waters sing,
Give one strain to the rain,
Give another to the spring,
Yea, give a chorus loud and long,
To aqueduct and spring!
198
[X. Says Jonathan, says he, “To-day]
Says Jonathan, says he, “To-day
I will be independent,
And so my grog I'll throw away,
And that shall be the end on't.
Clear the house! the 'tarnal stuff
Shan't be here so handy;
Wife has given the winds her snuff,
So now here goes my brandy!
I will be independent,
And so my grog I'll throw away,
And that shall be the end on't.
Clear the house! the 'tarnal stuff
Shan't be here so handy;
Wife has given the winds her snuff,
So now here goes my brandy!
Chorus.
Clear the house, &c.
“Our fathers, though a sturdy folk,
Were sometimes rayther skittish;
And so they wouldn't wear the yoke
Brought over by the British.
Yonder, on old Bunker's head,
From their necks they shook it;
There they fired off all their lead,
And then they had to hook it.
Were sometimes rayther skittish;
And so they wouldn't wear the yoke
Brought over by the British.
Yonder, on old Bunker's head,
From their necks they shook it;
There they fired off all their lead,
And then they had to hook it.
Chorus.
Yonder, on, &c.
“But though they fit and run away,
They warn't a bit o' cowards;
They lived to fight another day,
When lookin' Gin'ral Howe-wards.
What could then the Gin'ral do
For his own salvation?
Why, he ‘cussed and quit’ the u-
nivarsal Yankee nation.
They warn't a bit o' cowards;
They lived to fight another day,
When lookin' Gin'ral Howe-wards.
199
For his own salvation?
Why, he ‘cussed and quit’ the u-
nivarsal Yankee nation.
Chorus.
What could then, &c.
“The tyrant that our fathers smoked
Lay skulkin' in a tea-pot;
There's now ‘a worser’ to be choked,
In bottle, jug, or wee pot;
Often in a glass he shows
What he calls his ‘body’;
And often wades, up to his nose,
In a bowl of toddy.
Lay skulkin' in a tea-pot;
There's now ‘a worser’ to be choked,
In bottle, jug, or wee pot;
Often in a glass he shows
What he calls his ‘body’;
And often wades, up to his nose,
In a bowl of toddy.
Chorus.
Often in a glass, &c.
“Sometimes he creeps up, through the slim
Stem of a very fine pipe;
And sometimes plunges, for a swim,
All over in a wine-pipe;
But, he's tickled, most of all,
When he hears the summons
Down his favorite pipes to crawl,—
The wind-pipes of the rum-uns.
Stem of a very fine pipe;
And sometimes plunges, for a swim,
All over in a wine-pipe;
But, he's tickled, most of all,
When he hears the summons
Down his favorite pipes to crawl,—
The wind-pipes of the rum-uns.
Chorus.
But, he's tickled, &c.
“And when he gets the upper hand,—
This tyrant, base and scurvy,—
He strips a man of house and land,
And turns him topsy-turvy.
Neck and heels he binds him fast,
And says that he is his'n;
But lets him have, rent free, at last,
A poor-house or a prison.
This tyrant, base and scurvy,—
He strips a man of house and land,
And turns him topsy-turvy.
200
And says that he is his'n;
But lets him have, rent free, at last,
A poor-house or a prison.
Chorus.
Neck and heels, &c.
“And now,” says Jonathan, “towards Rum
I'm desperate unforgivin';
The tyrant, never more, shall come
Into ‘the house I live in.’
Kindred spirits, too, shall in-
to outer darkness go forth;
Whisky, Toddy, Julep, Gin,
Brandy, Beer, and so forth.
I'm desperate unforgivin';
The tyrant, never more, shall come
Into ‘the house I live in.’
Kindred spirits, too, shall in-
to outer darkness go forth;
Whisky, Toddy, Julep, Gin,
Brandy, Beer, and so forth.
Chorus.
Kindred spirits, &c.
“While this COLD WATER fills my cup,
Duns dare not assail me;
Sheriffs shall not lock me up,
Nor my neighbours bail me;
Lawyers will I never let
‘Choose me as defendant’;
Till to death I pay my debt,
I will be independent.”
Duns dare not assail me;
Sheriffs shall not lock me up,
Nor my neighbours bail me;
Lawyers will I never let
‘Choose me as defendant’;
Till to death I pay my debt,
I will be independent.”
Chorus.
Lawyers will I never let, &c.201
[XI. Let the trump of Fame]
Let the trump of Fame
Be blown in praise of all,
Who, in Virtue's name,
Fight or bravely fall!
On the heroes move,
Though hosts their march impede;
For the land they love
They plead, they plead.
Who hath ears to hear
Let him hear their plea,
And with holy fear
From the Tempter flee;
Till brew-house, vat, and still
Are swept from all our shore,
And hill shall shout to hill,
“Their slavery is no more!”
Be blown in praise of all,
Who, in Virtue's name,
Fight or bravely fall!
On the heroes move,
Though hosts their march impede;
For the land they love
They plead, they plead.
Who hath ears to hear
Let him hear their plea,
And with holy fear
From the Tempter flee;
Till brew-house, vat, and still
Are swept from all our shore,
And hill shall shout to hill,
“Their slavery is no more!”
Cheer the patriot band,
Who, for their country, draw
The sword of God's right hand,
The sword of Right and Law!
They in His strength are strong,
Who dare encounter loss,
While bearing thus along
The cross, the cross.
Grasp, every man, his shield,—
The shield of faith,—and come
On to the battle-field,
Against the powers of Rum.
Those powers are shaken, even now!
Of Heaven they're not the powers!
Then on, with dauntless brow!
The Victory is ours!
Who, for their country, draw
The sword of God's right hand,
The sword of Right and Law!
202
Who dare encounter loss,
While bearing thus along
The cross, the cross.
Grasp, every man, his shield,—
The shield of faith,—and come
On to the battle-field,
Against the powers of Rum.
Those powers are shaken, even now!
Of Heaven they're not the powers!
Then on, with dauntless brow!
The Victory is ours!
[XII. Source of being, Holy Father]
Source of being, Holy Father,
With the day's returning light,
Round our board with thanks we gather,
For the mercies of the night:
With the day's returning light,
Round our board with thanks we gather,
For the mercies of the night:
Mercies that the stars outnumber,
Which their silent courses keep,—
Angel guards that never slumber,—
While we lie and safely sleep.
Which their silent courses keep,—
Angel guards that never slumber,—
While we lie and safely sleep.
203
Pillows, wet with tears of anguish,
Couches, pressed in sleepless woe,
Where the sons of Belial languish,
Father, may we never know!
Couches, pressed in sleepless woe,
Where the sons of Belial languish,
Father, may we never know!
For, the maddening cup shall never
To our thirsting lips be pressed,
But, our draft shall be, for ever,
The cold water thou hast blessed.
To our thirsting lips be pressed,
But, our draft shall be, for ever,
The cold water thou hast blessed.
This shall give us strength to labor,
This, make all our stores increase;
This, with thee and with our neighbour,
Bind us in the bonds of peace.
This, make all our stores increase;
This, with thee and with our neighbour,
Bind us in the bonds of peace.
For the lake, the well, the river,
Water-brook, and crystal spring,
Do we now, to thee, the Giver,
Thanks, our daily tribute, bring.
Water-brook, and crystal spring,
Do we now, to thee, the Giver,
Thanks, our daily tribute, bring.
1840.
[XIII. This day, O God, thy blessed hand]
This day, O God, thy blessed hand
Hath thrown wide open all thy stores,
And filled with bounty every land,
The sea, and all its sounding shores.
Hath thrown wide open all thy stores,
And filled with bounty every land,
The sea, and all its sounding shores.
204
Beast, bird, fish, insect, hast thou fed
With fish or flesh, with grass or grain;—
For man a table hast thou spread
From field, flood, air, or roaring main.
With fish or flesh, with grass or grain;—
For man a table hast thou spread
From field, flood, air, or roaring main.
But, for all things o'er earth that move,
In air or ocean soar or sink,
One thing hath thine unbounded love,
And only one, prepared for drink.
In air or ocean soar or sink,
One thing hath thine unbounded love,
And only one, prepared for drink.
'T is water! In the living spring
It gusheth up to meet our lip;
In brooks we hear it murmuring,
From mossy rocks we see it drip.
It gusheth up to meet our lip;
In brooks we hear it murmuring,
From mossy rocks we see it drip.
It filleth Health and Beauty's cup,
And wrath and sorrow doth it drown,
As from our wells it cometh up,
As from thy clouds it cometh down.
And wrath and sorrow doth it drown,
As from our wells it cometh up,
As from thy clouds it cometh down.
For the cool water we have quaffed,
Source of all good! we owe thee much;
Our lips have touched no burning draught
This day, nor shall they ever touch.
Source of all good! we owe thee much;
Our lips have touched no burning draught
This day, nor shall they ever touch.
When we retire to our repose,
And Night's dark curtains round us draw,
O guard us, as thou guardest those
Who trust thy care, and keep thy law!
And Night's dark curtains round us draw,
O guard us, as thou guardest those
Who trust thy care, and keep thy law!
1840.
205
XIV.
THE DRUNKARD'S FUNERAL.
There was, some eighteen years or more ago,
A young man, a parishioner of mine,
Whose name was Willard. There are Willards many,
As there are many Lords and many Smiths.
This Willard was a butcher;—and my meats
I often bought of him, in Boylston Market.
A young man, a parishioner of mine,
Whose name was Willard. There are Willards many,
As there are many Lords and many Smiths.
This Willard was a butcher;—and my meats
I often bought of him, in Boylston Market.
He was a man of about five feet ten;
Upright, of ample chest and well-knit frame.
His eyes were black; and, on his healthy cheeks,
The rose and lily met and kissed each other.
Had he, instead of Boston, dwelt in Rome,
The sculptors there, Thorwaldsen and Canova,
Might have pulled caps to see whose studio
Willard should grace by standing as a model,
When those magicians were about to call
A young Apollo from Carrara's marble.
Upright, of ample chest and well-knit frame.
His eyes were black; and, on his healthy cheeks,
The rose and lily met and kissed each other.
Had he, instead of Boston, dwelt in Rome,
The sculptors there, Thorwaldsen and Canova,
Might have pulled caps to see whose studio
Willard should grace by standing as a model,
When those magicians were about to call
A young Apollo from Carrara's marble.
His young wife, in her comfortable home,
I visited, in my parochial walks;—
And, for a year or two, his pew, I saw,
Was never empty on the Sabbath day.
But, after that, both from his pew and stall
He was an absentee; and then I learned
That he'd become a drover; and, as such,
Went up and down the earth, and to and fro,
And dealt in bullocks, as he'd dealt in beef.
I visited, in my parochial walks;—
And, for a year or two, his pew, I saw,
Was never empty on the Sabbath day.
But, after that, both from his pew and stall
He was an absentee; and then I learned
That he'd become a drover; and, as such,
206
And dealt in bullocks, as he'd dealt in beef.
Still later,—and, meanwhile, his face no more
Was seen with those who, in the holy place,
“Came to present themselves before the Lord;”
And, therefore, knew I him or his no more;—
I sometimes saw him, in the business streets,
Acting, it seemed to me, as owner, first,
And, last, as only driver, of a dray.
And then, for years, he was to me as lost.
His comely figure sometimes swam along
Before the closing eye of Memory;
And I would ask myself what had become
Of Willard; he had seemed like one on whom
The eye of Fortune had not turned with smiles;—
Like one who, on the ladder of affairs,
Had been, for some time, stepping,—like a man
Descending from a roof with empty hod,—
Backwards and downwards. But years rolled away;
The places he had filled were filled by others;—
Another, in the market, had his stall;
And, to his pew, another family
“Came, to present themselves before the Lord.”
Such is the mutability of life!
Was seen with those who, in the holy place,
“Came to present themselves before the Lord;”
And, therefore, knew I him or his no more;—
I sometimes saw him, in the business streets,
Acting, it seemed to me, as owner, first,
And, last, as only driver, of a dray.
And then, for years, he was to me as lost.
His comely figure sometimes swam along
Before the closing eye of Memory;
And I would ask myself what had become
Of Willard; he had seemed like one on whom
The eye of Fortune had not turned with smiles;—
Like one who, on the ladder of affairs,
Had been, for some time, stepping,—like a man
Descending from a roof with empty hod,—
Backwards and downwards. But years rolled away;
The places he had filled were filled by others;—
Another, in the market, had his stall;
And, to his pew, another family
“Came, to present themselves before the Lord.”
Such is the mutability of life!
Years passed;—and, late one Saturday, there came
A neighbour, to request that I would go,
And offer prayer with a poor family
Whose head was taken away. The tenement,
The cold brick tenement, where the poor wife
Sat with her children, shrouded in coarse weeds,
Appeared almost as chill and desolate
As did the cold, white tenement of clay,
That lay o'erthrown before me. There appeared,
Around the mourners, not a single thing
That spoke of comfort past, or good to come;—
Nothing,—save what the bowels of the law
Deny its harpy fingers. I saw then,—
What I'd surmised,—that these poor, desolate ones
Must be,—they were!—a drunkard's family.
A neighbour, to request that I would go,
And offer prayer with a poor family
Whose head was taken away. The tenement,
The cold brick tenement, where the poor wife
Sat with her children, shrouded in coarse weeds,
207
As did the cold, white tenement of clay,
That lay o'erthrown before me. There appeared,
Around the mourners, not a single thing
That spoke of comfort past, or good to come;—
Nothing,—save what the bowels of the law
Deny its harpy fingers. I saw then,—
What I'd surmised,—that these poor, desolate ones
Must be,—they were!—a drunkard's family.
To pray with those from whom the hand of death
Hath taken away the reverend and the wise,
Or, “in its infant innocence,” removed
The babe, the budding child,—meet type of heaven!—
Is a delightful office. Then the eye
Of Christian faith follows the soul, set free
From sensual chains and lures, and sees it wing
Its upward way;—and sees the gates of bliss
Swing open wide, to let the white dove in.
Hath taken away the reverend and the wise,
Or, “in its infant innocence,” removed
The babe, the budding child,—meet type of heaven!—
Is a delightful office. Then the eye
Of Christian faith follows the soul, set free
From sensual chains and lures, and sees it wing
Its upward way;—and sees the gates of bliss
Swing open wide, to let the white dove in.
How full of comfort is the Holy Book,
For such as mourn the righteous and the pure!
How full of consolation then may be
The voice of him, whose office 't is to give
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” But, oh!
If thou'st a heart that pity e'er hath touched,
Pity him, who the sacrifice of prayer
Must offer at a drunkard's funeral!
For such as mourn the righteous and the pure!
How full of consolation then may be
The voice of him, whose office 't is to give
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” But, oh!
If thou'st a heart that pity e'er hath touched,
Pity him, who the sacrifice of prayer
Must offer at a drunkard's funeral!
The brothers of the man, o'er whose remains
Prayer must be made, had from the country come
To take the body back,—now that the town
Had wrought its work upon it,—and to lay
What was once beautiful and full of life,
Into the kind arms of its mother, Earth.
Prayer must be made, had from the country come
To take the body back,—now that the town
208
What was once beautiful and full of life,
Into the kind arms of its mother, Earth.
The coffin's lid was closed. Before I prayed,
I stepped up by its side, to read the name
Cut on the metal plate;—for though the shades
Of evening were descending, there was light
Enough thrown off from its reflecting face
For me to see that “Willard” was the name!
I stepped up by its side, to read the name
Cut on the metal plate;—for though the shades
Of evening were descending, there was light
Enough thrown off from its reflecting face
For me to see that “Willard” was the name!
Ere I withdrew, I took the widow's hand,
Dropped what poor words of comfort I could find,
And said, “On Monday I will visit you.”
Dropped what poor words of comfort I could find,
And said, “On Monday I will visit you.”
I did so. On the corner of her hearth,
On which were burning a few coals and brands,
I found her sitting. She was bending o'er
Her youngest child,—an infant, in her lap,—
On which she seemed to gaze in speechless woe.
Deep o'er her eyes, concealing all her face,
Fell the wide ruffle of her cap of crape.
A little barefoot girl, some ten years old,
Was taxing all her strength, o'er the poor fire
To hang an iron kettle;—not for tea,
Nor yet to cleanse the dishes, to be used
At an approaching dinner; but, to wash,
As it appeared, the few and tattered shreds
That death and infancy had lately worn.
On which were burning a few coals and brands,
I found her sitting. She was bending o'er
Her youngest child,—an infant, in her lap,—
On which she seemed to gaze in speechless woe.
Deep o'er her eyes, concealing all her face,
Fell the wide ruffle of her cap of crape.
A little barefoot girl, some ten years old,
Was taxing all her strength, o'er the poor fire
To hang an iron kettle;—not for tea,
Nor yet to cleanse the dishes, to be used
At an approaching dinner; but, to wash,
As it appeared, the few and tattered shreds
That death and infancy had lately worn.
I sat down by the desolate one, and strove
By words of soothing to dissolve the spell
That sorrow seemed to have thrown over her.
But, she was dumb,—she opened not her mouth.
My heart for her apologized, and said
“A hopeless, tearless, voiceless grief is this,”—
(For, all this while, no tear dropped on her babe!)
“And well it may be such! for, what a scene
Is this around her! What sad memories come
Up, from the past, to greet her! And, before,
O, what a dark and dreary prospect opens!
What can she say to me,—or I to her?”
Thus pleaded my heart for her. Then I spake,—
For something must be spoken,—of a trust
With which a Christian woman should resign
Her loved and lost ones,—even though they'd fallen,
As her poor husband fell,—to His high call,
Who knoweth well how feeble is our frame,
And “who remembereth that we are dust.”
Then spake I of her children, who had now
No earthly father their young feet to guide,
And who on her sole arm must therefore lean
For care and culture. To a mother's hand,
And now to hers alone, they'd look for bread.
“Shouldst thou not, then, for these, thy children's sake,
With all the strength thy God hath given thee,
Bear up the burden that His mighty hand
Hath laid upon thy spirit? Shouldst thou not
Lift up thine eyes and heart to Him, and say,
‘Lord, here am I, and those whom thou hast given me!
Help me, who feel thy rod, ne'er to complain
Of Him who hath appointed it! O, lead
Me, and these little ones of mine, to Thee;
And may we all, in Thee, a Father find,
Since he who was their earthly father's gone!’
Yea, widowed mourner, though bereft of him
On whose kind arm thou leanedst in thy youth,
Be not disconsolate, or overcome
By a too deep affliction. Lift thy heart,—
Lift up thine eyes!” And she did lift them up!
Then, for the first time, lifted she her eyes,—
They were the maudlin eyes of drunkenness!
She was, indeed, “o'ercome,”—but not with grief!
Rum was the “rod” that she was bowing under!
Yes! that poor widowed one, who, two days since,—
Nay, not two days!—had seen her husband borne
To the low house appointed for all living,—
A victim and a trophy of “the trade,”—
Her little children hungering for the bread
That only she could give them,—one of them,
Even then, receiving its whole stream of life
From her own bosom!—at the very hour
When he, who had commended her to God,
Yea, and would yet commend her, was to come,
To weep with them who wept, and kneel beside
The robbed and wounded,—come to stanch the blood,
And pour in oil and wine,—that woman, then,
Was so profoundly steeped in what men make,
And what the law of e'en this Christian land
Allows expressly to be sold, and borne
From house to house, and drunk in families,—
And all this, as it says, “for public good,”—
That, while I sat beside her, from her breast,
Her lap, her drunken arms, she let her babe
Upon the hearth-stone fall!
By words of soothing to dissolve the spell
209
But, she was dumb,—she opened not her mouth.
My heart for her apologized, and said
“A hopeless, tearless, voiceless grief is this,”—
(For, all this while, no tear dropped on her babe!)
“And well it may be such! for, what a scene
Is this around her! What sad memories come
Up, from the past, to greet her! And, before,
O, what a dark and dreary prospect opens!
What can she say to me,—or I to her?”
Thus pleaded my heart for her. Then I spake,—
For something must be spoken,—of a trust
With which a Christian woman should resign
Her loved and lost ones,—even though they'd fallen,
As her poor husband fell,—to His high call,
Who knoweth well how feeble is our frame,
And “who remembereth that we are dust.”
Then spake I of her children, who had now
No earthly father their young feet to guide,
And who on her sole arm must therefore lean
For care and culture. To a mother's hand,
And now to hers alone, they'd look for bread.
“Shouldst thou not, then, for these, thy children's sake,
With all the strength thy God hath given thee,
Bear up the burden that His mighty hand
Hath laid upon thy spirit? Shouldst thou not
Lift up thine eyes and heart to Him, and say,
‘Lord, here am I, and those whom thou hast given me!
Help me, who feel thy rod, ne'er to complain
Of Him who hath appointed it! O, lead
Me, and these little ones of mine, to Thee;
210
Since he who was their earthly father's gone!’
Yea, widowed mourner, though bereft of him
On whose kind arm thou leanedst in thy youth,
Be not disconsolate, or overcome
By a too deep affliction. Lift thy heart,—
Lift up thine eyes!” And she did lift them up!
Then, for the first time, lifted she her eyes,—
They were the maudlin eyes of drunkenness!
She was, indeed, “o'ercome,”—but not with grief!
Rum was the “rod” that she was bowing under!
Yes! that poor widowed one, who, two days since,—
Nay, not two days!—had seen her husband borne
To the low house appointed for all living,—
A victim and a trophy of “the trade,”—
Her little children hungering for the bread
That only she could give them,—one of them,
Even then, receiving its whole stream of life
From her own bosom!—at the very hour
When he, who had commended her to God,
Yea, and would yet commend her, was to come,
To weep with them who wept, and kneel beside
The robbed and wounded,—come to stanch the blood,
And pour in oil and wine,—that woman, then,
Was so profoundly steeped in what men make,
And what the law of e'en this Christian land
Allows expressly to be sold, and borne
From house to house, and drunk in families,—
And all this, as it says, “for public good,”—
That, while I sat beside her, from her breast,
Her lap, her drunken arms, she let her babe
Upon the hearth-stone fall!
211
Now, in all this, there is no poetry;—
The tale is simple fact, and simply told.
The hand of God,—that painteth evening's clouds,
The gloom of midnight, and the morning's glory,
Who poureth round the death-bed of the just
A light that prompteth him with dying voice
To cry, “O grave, where is thy victory?”—
Hath painted, with the pencil of events,
This gloomy picture, and hath hung it up
Within the chamber of my memory.
I cannot copy it stronger than it is,
Nay, nor yet as it is! Yet there are those,
To whom this tale of real life,—and death,—
Thus simply told, without a single word
Of denunciation, censure, or rebuke
Towards those who made, or sold, or drank the death
To soul and body that hath here been seen,
Will give offence. Then spread it out, O God,
My Judge, and his and hers, of whom 't is told,
Yea, and the Judge of all who saw the man
Go down into his grave, and led him down,
By reaching forth their hand, with that in it
Which he knew, and which they knew, would be death,—
Spread out the tale, O God, as here it is,
Upon that record from which all, at last,—
I, and all those for whom I live and labor,
My family, my flock, my age, my race,—
Shall “in that day” be judged,—spread it all out,
As I have written it,—as it hath lain
For years, beneath thine own all-seeing eye,
And let thy judgment, then, between me pass
And those to whom I may have given offence,
Whether I write in hatred or in love,
Whether they read in charity or not!
But, so do unto me, and to my house,
And more,—if more than this of earthly woe
Thou hast in store for one who fears thee not,—
If I be let, by this world's fears or hopes,
From speaking, while thou keep'st me in thy service,
The word which thou commandest me to speak!
The tale is simple fact, and simply told.
The hand of God,—that painteth evening's clouds,
The gloom of midnight, and the morning's glory,
Who poureth round the death-bed of the just
A light that prompteth him with dying voice
To cry, “O grave, where is thy victory?”—
Hath painted, with the pencil of events,
This gloomy picture, and hath hung it up
Within the chamber of my memory.
I cannot copy it stronger than it is,
Nay, nor yet as it is! Yet there are those,
To whom this tale of real life,—and death,—
Thus simply told, without a single word
Of denunciation, censure, or rebuke
Towards those who made, or sold, or drank the death
To soul and body that hath here been seen,
Will give offence. Then spread it out, O God,
My Judge, and his and hers, of whom 't is told,
Yea, and the Judge of all who saw the man
Go down into his grave, and led him down,
By reaching forth their hand, with that in it
Which he knew, and which they knew, would be death,—
Spread out the tale, O God, as here it is,
Upon that record from which all, at last,—
I, and all those for whom I live and labor,
My family, my flock, my age, my race,—
Shall “in that day” be judged,—spread it all out,
As I have written it,—as it hath lain
For years, beneath thine own all-seeing eye,
And let thy judgment, then, between me pass
And those to whom I may have given offence,
212
Whether they read in charity or not!
But, so do unto me, and to my house,
And more,—if more than this of earthly woe
Thou hast in store for one who fears thee not,—
If I be let, by this world's fears or hopes,
From speaking, while thou keep'st me in thy service,
The word which thou commandest me to speak!
But give me, God of wisdom and of grace,
Give me the wisdom, all thy words of truth
And grace, with grace to speak. What is severe
In manner, tone, or spirit,—help me soften,
Till all my words become like his who spake
For Thee as never man before had spoken,—
In some good measure worthy of thy truth,—
Thy truth that sanctifies and saves the soul!
But, to that truth,—while I've a tongue to speak,
A pen to write it, or a heart to feel
Its beauty and its power,—O, let me ne'er
Prove faithless! To thy guiding hand, my God,
I give this simple tale. While writing it,
I've been drawn nearer to thee. In thy courts,
This day, I could not serve thee;—for thy hand
Hath gently touched me with infirmity;—
Upon thine altar, in my house, I lay
This little offering. Accept it, Lord,
With those that have been made thee in thine own!
Give me the wisdom, all thy words of truth
And grace, with grace to speak. What is severe
In manner, tone, or spirit,—help me soften,
Till all my words become like his who spake
For Thee as never man before had spoken,—
In some good measure worthy of thy truth,—
Thy truth that sanctifies and saves the soul!
But, to that truth,—while I've a tongue to speak,
A pen to write it, or a heart to feel
Its beauty and its power,—O, let me ne'er
Prove faithless! To thy guiding hand, my God,
I give this simple tale. While writing it,
I've been drawn nearer to thee. In thy courts,
This day, I could not serve thee;—for thy hand
Hath gently touched me with infirmity;—
Upon thine altar, in my house, I lay
This little offering. Accept it, Lord,
With those that have been made thee in thine own!
Sunday, February 24th, 1839.
213
VI.
FUNEREAL PIECES.
215
I.
THE EXILE AT REST.
His falchion flashed along the Nile;—
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;—
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;—
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone;—not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Here sleeps he now alone;—the star,
That led him on from crown to crown,
Hath sunk;—the nations from afar
Gazed, as it faded and went down.
That led him on from crown to crown,
Hath sunk;—the nations from afar
Gazed, as it faded and went down.
He sleeps alone;—the mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his martial form in death.
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his martial form in death.
216
High is his couch;—the ocean flood
Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids,
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him?—No;—
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him?—No;—
The only, the perpetual dirge,
That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
1828.
[II. Stranger, there is bending o'er thee]
[_]
Written for the Obsequies of Dr. Gaspard Spurzheim, which were celebrated in the Old South Church, Boston, November 17th, 1832.
Stranger, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forget what thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,—thy noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,
In the greatness of thy fame.
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forget what thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,—thy noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,
In the greatness of thy fame.
217
Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither
On the spot where thou shalt rest;
'T is in love we bear thee thither,
To thy mourning Mother's breast.
For the stores of science brought us,
For the charm thy goodness gave
To the lessons thou hast taught us,
Can we give thee but a grave?
On the spot where thou shalt rest;
'T is in love we bear thee thither,
To thy mourning Mother's breast.
For the stores of science brought us,
For the charm thy goodness gave
To the lessons thou hast taught us,
Can we give thee but a grave?
Nature's priest, how pure and fervent
Was thy worship at her shrine!
Friend of man, of God the servant,
Advocate of truths divine,—
Taught and charmed as by no other
We have been, and hoped to be;
But, while waiting round thee, brother,
For thy light,—'t is dark with thee.
Was thy worship at her shrine!
Friend of man, of God the servant,
Advocate of truths divine,—
Taught and charmed as by no other
We have been, and hoped to be;
But, while waiting round thee, brother,
For thy light,—'t is dark with thee.
Dark with thee?—No; thy Creator,
All whose creatures and whose laws
Thou didst love, shall give thee greater
Light than earth's, as earth withdraws.
To thy God thy godlike spirit
Back we give, in filial trust;
Thy cold clay,—we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,—but we must.
All whose creatures and whose laws
Thou didst love, shall give thee greater
Light than earth's, as earth withdraws.
To thy God thy godlike spirit
Back we give, in filial trust;
Thy cold clay,—we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,—but we must.
218
III.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F--- II---.
Dear sister! we were little girls
When we were standing by,
With eyes brim full of melting pearls,
To see our father die.
When we were standing by,
With eyes brim full of melting pearls,
To see our father die.
Round our wet cheeks the ringlets curled,
When last he kissed both of us;
And then we had not in the world
A parent left to love us.
When last he kissed both of us;
And then we had not in the world
A parent left to love us.
But, from that memorable day,
Have we not loved each other?
And have we not loved thee?—O say,
Dear mother of our mother!
Have we not loved each other?
And have we not loved thee?—O say,
Dear mother of our mother!
For, then it was thine arms were flung
Around the orphan girls,
And to thy bosom have we clung,
And thou hast combed our curls,
Around the orphan girls,
And to thy bosom have we clung,
And thou hast combed our curls,
And thou hast laid us in our bed,
And knelt in prayer above us.—
Blessings be on thine aged head!
It showed how thou didst love us.
And knelt in prayer above us.—
Blessings be on thine aged head!
It showed how thou didst love us.
219
Sister, when thou wast made a wife
And I was left her only,
I thought I never, in my life,
Could feel again so lonely.
And I was left her only,
I thought I never, in my life,
Could feel again so lonely.
Yet soon I learned to look upon
Thy husband as my brother;
And, O how bright that morning shone,
When I saw thee a mother!
Thy husband as my brother;
And, O how bright that morning shone,
When I saw thee a mother!
That was the last of all the suns
That will look bright to me;
The loved,—the lost,—the buried ones
Must now make room for thee!
That will look bright to me;
The loved,—the lost,—the buried ones
Must now make room for thee!
One more look, ere thou goest to rest!
And let me see thee so,—
Thine infant lying on thy breast,—
A rose-bud on the snow.
And let me see thee so,—
Thine infant lying on thy breast,—
A rose-bud on the snow.
It weeps,—my dear dead sister, now
Thou canst not hear its moan,—
One kiss upon this marble brow!
O now I am alone!
Thou canst not hear its moan,—
One kiss upon this marble brow!
O now I am alone!
1837.
220
IV.
HER CHOSEN SPOT.
[_]
She selected the place for her grave, in the new Cemetery at Worcester, while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting-place of the dead.
While yet she lived, she walked alone
Among these shades. A voice divine
Whispered,—“This spot shall be thine own;
Here shall thy wasting form recline,
Beneath the shadow of this pine.”
Among these shades. A voice divine
Whispered,—“This spot shall be thine own;
Here shall thy wasting form recline,
Beneath the shadow of this pine.”
“Thy will be done!” the sufferer said.—
This spot was hallowed from that hour;
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade
And morning's dew this green spot made
More lovely than her bridal bower.
This spot was hallowed from that hour;
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade
And morning's dew this green spot made
More lovely than her bridal bower.
By the pale moon,—herself more pale
And spirit-like,—these walks she trod;
And, while no voice, from swell or vale,
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod
And gave her spirit back to God.
And spirit-like,—these walks she trod;
And, while no voice, from swell or vale,
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod
And gave her spirit back to God.
That spirit, with an angel's wings,
Went up from the young mother's bed.
So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings;—
She's lost to earth and earthly things;—
But “weep not, for she is not dead,
Went up from the young mother's bed.
So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings;—
She's lost to earth and earthly things;—
But “weep not, for she is not dead,
221
She sleepeth!”—Yea, she sleepeth here,
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.
The babe that lay on her cold breast,—
A rose-bud, dropped on drifted snow,—
Its young hand in its father's pressed,
Shall learn that she, who first caressed
Its infant cheek, now sleeps below.
A rose-bud, dropped on drifted snow,—
Its young hand in its father's pressed,
Shall learn that she, who first caressed
Its infant cheek, now sleeps below.
And often shall he come alone,
When not a sound but evening's sigh
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none
But God and guardian angels nigh,
When not a sound but evening's sigh
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none
But God and guardian angels nigh,
Shall say,—“This was my mother's choice
For her own grave,—O, be it mine!
Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
And mournful whisper of this pine.”
For her own grave,—O, be it mine!
Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
And mournful whisper of this pine.”
1838.
222
V.
LYDIA.
[_]
Miss Lydia B. Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates, of the United States Army, died at Fort Columbus, Governor's Island, New York, February 28th, 1839, aged 19.
I saw her mother's eye of love
As gently on her rest,
As falls the light of evening's sun
Upon a lily's breast.
And the daughter to the mother raised
Her calm and loving eye,
As a lake, among its sheltering hills,
Looks upward to the sky.
As gently on her rest,
As falls the light of evening's sun
Upon a lily's breast.
And the daughter to the mother raised
Her calm and loving eye,
As a lake, among its sheltering hills,
Looks upward to the sky.
I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang
Upon its parent stem,
Just opening to the light, and graced
With many a dewy gem,
And, ere that bud had spread its leaves
And thrown its fragrance round,
I've seen it perish on its stem,
And drop upon the ground.
Upon its parent stem,
Just opening to the light, and graced
With many a dewy gem,
And, ere that bud had spread its leaves
And thrown its fragrance round,
I've seen it perish on its stem,
And drop upon the ground.
So, in her yet unfolding bloom,
Hath Lydia felt the blast;
A worm unseen hath done its work;—
To earth the bud is cast,
And on her lowly resting-place,—
As on the rose-bud's bed
Drops from the parent tree are showered,—
Her parents' tears are shed.
Hath Lydia felt the blast;
A worm unseen hath done its work;—
To earth the bud is cast,
223
As on the rose-bud's bed
Drops from the parent tree are showered,—
Her parents' tears are shed.
And other eyes there are that loved
Upon that bud to rest;
There's one who long had hoped to wear
The rose upon his breast;
Who'd watched and waited lovingly
Till it was fully blown,
And who had e'en put forth his hand,
To pluck it as his own.
Upon that bud to rest;
There's one who long had hoped to wear
The rose upon his breast;
Who'd watched and waited lovingly
Till it was fully blown,
And who had e'en put forth his hand,
To pluck it as his own.
A stronger hand than his that flower
Hath gathered from its tree!
And borne it hence, in Paradise
To bloom immortally;
And all that breathe the fragrance there
That its young leaves exhale,
It shall remind of Sharon's rose,—
The lily of the vale.
Hath gathered from its tree!
And borne it hence, in Paradise
To bloom immortally;
And all that breathe the fragrance there
That its young leaves exhale,
It shall remind of Sharon's rose,—
The lily of the vale.
The soldier father have I seen
Suppress a struggling sigh,
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her,
Stood trembling in his eye;—
No other daughter, in his arms,
Had ever slept, a child,
No other daughter, on his knee,
Had ever sat and smiled.
Suppress a struggling sigh,
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her,
Stood trembling in his eye;—
No other daughter, in his arms,
Had ever slept, a child,
No other daughter, on his knee,
Had ever sat and smiled.
224
And he was far away from her,
But for her had his fears,
And anxious thoughts, upon his brow,
Had left the stamp of years;
And now the grave hath, from his hand,
Received its sacred trust,
And father's, mother's, lover's tears
Have mingled with her dust.
But for her had his fears,
And anxious thoughts, upon his brow,
Had left the stamp of years;
And now the grave hath, from his hand,
Received its sacred trust,
And father's, mother's, lover's tears
Have mingled with her dust.
Peace to her dust! for, surely, peace
Her gentle spirit knows;
Around her narrow house, on earth,
The night wind sadly blows,
But heavenly airs, that through the trees
Of life for ever play,
Are breathing on her spirit's brow,
To dry her tears away.
Her gentle spirit knows;
Around her narrow house, on earth,
The night wind sadly blows,
But heavenly airs, that through the trees
Of life for ever play,
Are breathing on her spirit's brow,
To dry her tears away.
1839.
[VI. O, not for thee we weep;—we weep]
[_]
Written for the Funeral Service in Commemoration of the Life and Character of Charles Follen, before the Massachussetts Anti-Slavery Society, April 17th, 1840.
O, not for thee we weep;—we weep
For her, whose lone and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.
For her, whose lone and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.
225
'T is for ourselves we mourn;—we mourn
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength, that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength, that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.
'T is for the slave we sigh;—we sigh
To think thou sleepest on a shore
Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.
To think thou sleepest on a shore
Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.
'T is for our land we grieve;—we grieve
That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou shouldst leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.
That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou shouldst leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.
A soul like thine,—so true a soul,
Wife, friends, our land, the world, must miss;
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,—
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.
Wife, friends, our land, the world, must miss;
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,—
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.
VIII
A SISTER'S THOUGHTS OVER A BROTHER'S GRAVE.
He sleeps in peace! Death's cold eclipse
His radiant eyes hath shrouded o'er,
And slander's poison, from the lips
Of woman, on his heart no more
Distils, and burns it to its core.
His radiant eyes hath shrouded o'er,
And slander's poison, from the lips
Of woman, on his heart no more
Distils, and burns it to its core.
226
He sleeps in peace! The noble spirit
That beamed forth from his living brow,
Prompt, at the shrine of real merit,
With reverence and with truth to bow,
Is, by false tongues, not troubled now.
That beamed forth from his living brow,
Prompt, at the shrine of real merit,
With reverence and with truth to bow,
Is, by false tongues, not troubled now.
He sleeps in peace! And, while he sleeps,
He dreams not of earth's loves or strifes;
The tears a sister for him weeps,—
He knows not that they 're not his wife's!
His thoughts are all another life's.
He dreams not of earth's loves or strifes;
The tears a sister for him weeps,—
He knows not that they 're not his wife's!
His thoughts are all another life's.
I hope he knows not that the hand
Once given to him is now another's;
I know, the flame that once it fanned
Had all gone out. I know my brother's
Last thoughts were of my love and mother's.
Once given to him is now another's;
I know, the flame that once it fanned
Had all gone out. I know my brother's
Last thoughts were of my love and mother's.
I hope he knows not that his child
Hears not nor knows its father's name.
Keep its young spirit undefiled
And worthy of its father's fame,
O Thou, from whom its spirit came!
Hears not nor knows its father's name.
Keep its young spirit undefiled
And worthy of its father's fame,
O Thou, from whom its spirit came!
Thou Father of the fatherless,
The mantle that my brother wore,—
The robe of truth and faithfulness,—
Keep, for his infant, in thy store;
My brother hath left nothing more!
The mantle that my brother wore,—
The robe of truth and faithfulness,—
Keep, for his infant, in thy store;
My brother hath left nothing more!
227
That mantle!—men had seen him throw
It amply round him ere it fell!
Peace, brother, 't is as white as snow;
No one of all on earth that dwell
Can stain what once became thee well.
It amply round him ere it fell!
Peace, brother, 't is as white as snow;
No one of all on earth that dwell
Can stain what once became thee well.
In peace thou sleepest;—through the bars
Of its dim cell thy spirit fled;
And now thy sister and the stars
Their tears of dew and pity shed,
Heart-broken brother, on thy bed.
Of its dim cell thy spirit fled;
And now thy sister and the stars
Their tears of dew and pity shed,
Heart-broken brother, on thy bed.
1840.
VIII.
MY FATHER, MOTHER, BROTHERS, SISTERS.
They are all gone, but one.—
A daughter and a son
Were, from my parents, early taken away;
And my own childhood's joy
Was darkened when, a boy,
I saw them, in their coffins as they lay.
A daughter and a son
Were, from my parents, early taken away;
And my own childhood's joy
Was darkened when, a boy,
I saw them, in their coffins as they lay.
To manhood had I grown;
And children of my own
Were gathering round me, when my mother died.
I saw not her cold clay,
When it was borne away
And buried by her little children's side,
And children of my own
Were gathering round me, when my mother died.
I saw not her cold clay,
When it was borne away
And buried by her little children's side,
228
Beneath the now green sod.—
She led me first to God;
Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.
For, when she used to leave
The fireside, every eve,
I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew.
She led me first to God;
Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.
For, when she used to leave
The fireside, every eve,
I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew.
That dew, that blessed my youth,—
Her holy love, her truth,
Her spirit of devotion, and the tears
That she could not suppress,—
Hath never ceased to bless
My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.
Her holy love, her truth,
Her spirit of devotion, and the tears
That she could not suppress,—
Hath never ceased to bless
My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.
How often has the thought
Of my mourned mother brought
Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power
The tempter to repel!
Mother, thou knowest well
That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!
Of my mourned mother brought
Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power
The tempter to repel!
Mother, thou knowest well
That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!
Two younger sisters then,
Both wives of worthy men,
After each one of them had been a mother,
Were touched by the cold hand,
And to the spirit-land,
In quick succession, followed one the other.
Both wives of worthy men,
After each one of them had been a mother,
Were touched by the cold hand,
And to the spirit-land,
In quick succession, followed one the other.
229
To neither could I speak;
Nor, on the marble cheek
Of either, drop a mourning brother's tear.—
The husband of the one,
The other's only son,
Have since been borne away upon the bier.
Nor, on the marble cheek
Of either, drop a mourning brother's tear.—
The husband of the one,
The other's only son,
Have since been borne away upon the bier.
Lake Erie's waters cold
Over a brother rolled:
The day was bright; the lake scarce felt a breeze;
While I have yet been spared,
Though dangers I have dared,
Storms, rocks, and pirates in the Grecian seas.
Over a brother rolled:
The day was bright; the lake scarce felt a breeze;
While I have yet been spared,
Though dangers I have dared,
Storms, rocks, and pirates in the Grecian seas.
Dear brother! in my dreams
Thy floating body seems
To lift its hand, and my poor aid implore!
I'm wakened by my weeping,
And know that thou art sleeping
In thy lone grave, on low Sandusky's shore.
Thy floating body seems
To lift its hand, and my poor aid implore!
I'm wakened by my weeping,
And know that thou art sleeping
In thy lone grave, on low Sandusky's shore.
I had one brother more,
The last my mother bore;
He was a boy when forth I went to roam.
He delved upon the farm;
Our father's aged arm
Leaned upon him,—his hope, his prop,—at home.
The last my mother bore;
He was a boy when forth I went to roam.
He delved upon the farm;
Our father's aged arm
Leaned upon him,—his hope, his prop,—at home.
230
He sunk beneath the weight
Of manly cares. A great
And growing name he left for strength and worth.
'T was but five months ago!
My father felt the blow,
And now he, too, has passed away from earth.
Of manly cares. A great
And growing name he left for strength and worth.
'T was but five months ago!
My father felt the blow,
And now he, too, has passed away from earth.
O, could I but have heard
One parting, blessing word
From all these dying loved ones! But the pall,
Unseen by me, was thrown,
And the green turf hath grown,
Wet by no tear of mine, over them all;—
One parting, blessing word
From all these dying loved ones! But the pall,
Unseen by me, was thrown,
And the green turf hath grown,
Wet by no tear of mine, over them all;—
All, but the last:—thank God!
Before the heavy clod
Fell on his coffin, to its side I drew;
And, though the thin, white hair
Lay, like the hoar frost, there,
My hand his forehead pressed, that felt like freezing dew.
Before the heavy clod
Fell on his coffin, to its side I drew;
And, though the thin, white hair
Lay, like the hoar frost, there,
My hand his forehead pressed, that felt like freezing dew.
It had been marked with care,
It had been bowed in prayer,
For many a year ere death upon it stole.
O'er it I bent alone.
'T was love's forsaken throne,
And its death chill went to my very soul!
It had been bowed in prayer,
For many a year ere death upon it stole.
O'er it I bent alone.
'T was love's forsaken throne,
And its death chill went to my very soul!
231
Of all am I bereft!
Only one sister left,—
A weeping willow, that to many a blast
Hath bowed her slender form.—
O God, hold back the storm
That thou shalt send to break her down, at last!
Only one sister left,—
A weeping willow, that to many a blast
Hath bowed her slender form.—
O God, hold back the storm
That thou shalt send to break her down, at last!
Father, to thee I bow!
In very love hast thou
Thy children summoned from earth's toils and tears.
Uphold me by thy strength,
Until I join, at length,
The friends thou gavest to my earliest years.
In very love hast thou
Thy children summoned from earth's toils and tears.
Uphold me by thy strength,
Until I join, at length,
The friends thou gavest to my earliest years.
1840.
233
VII.
HYMNS AND ODES FOR ANNIVERSARY, CENTENNIAL, AND OTHER CELEBRATIONS.
235
[I. On the birth-day of Time, the young monarch of light]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of Washington's Birth-day by the Washington Benevolent Society of Newburyport, February 22d, 1813.
On the birth-day of Time, the young monarch of light
With his beams waked from slumber the virgin creation;—
So, dispelling the gloom of Cimmerian night,
The lustre of Washington burst on our nation.
And this is the morn
The Hero was born,
Whose virtues shall History's pages adorn;
And his spirit awakes from the sleep of the grave,
To meet with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
With his beams waked from slumber the virgin creation;—
So, dispelling the gloom of Cimmerian night,
The lustre of Washington burst on our nation.
And this is the morn
The Hero was born,
Whose virtues shall History's pages adorn;
And his spirit awakes from the sleep of the grave,
To meet with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
The same spirit descends, borne on pinions of light,
That guided to fame our immortal commander;
O'er the ashes of Moscow she urges her flight,
And smiles while she hovers around Alexander.
She points to his rest
In the bowers of the blest,
Where the sunshine of peace warms the patriot's breast;
Where Washington, waked from the sleep of the grave,
Waits to welcome his friend;—for his friend is the brave.
That guided to fame our immortal commander;
O'er the ashes of Moscow she urges her flight,
And smiles while she hovers around Alexander.
She points to his rest
In the bowers of the blest,
Where the sunshine of peace warms the patriot's breast;
Where Washington, waked from the sleep of the grave,
Waits to welcome his friend;—for his friend is the brave.
236
The Serpent of France, nursed on carnage and spoil,
In whose poisonous train war and pestilence follow,
In agony writhes his voluminous coil,
Like the Python, assailed by the shafts of Apollo.
And, while patriot zeal
Gives the monster to feel
The lance of Koutousoff and Wellington's steel,
The spirit of Washington wakes from his grave,
To rejoice with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
In whose poisonous train war and pestilence follow,
In agony writhes his voluminous coil,
Like the Python, assailed by the shafts of Apollo.
And, while patriot zeal
Gives the monster to feel
The lance of Koutousoff and Wellington's steel,
The spirit of Washington wakes from his grave,
To rejoice with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
Though Columbia, ingulfed in a vortex of blood,
Hurls her gauntlet, unarmed, at the proud Queen of Ocean;—
Let thy spirit, great Hero, descend on the flood,
And rescue thy child from the mighty commotion.—
And, with boundless acclaim,
We'll ascribe to thy name
All that 's sacred in honor, or lasting in fame;
Till the fields of our fathers be Liberty's grave,
And virtue expire in the breast of the brave.
Hurls her gauntlet, unarmed, at the proud Queen of Ocean;—
Let thy spirit, great Hero, descend on the flood,
And rescue thy child from the mighty commotion.—
And, with boundless acclaim,
We'll ascribe to thy name
All that 's sacred in honor, or lasting in fame;
Till the fields of our fathers be Liberty's grave,
And virtue expire in the breast of the brave.
237
[II. Hark! 'tis the children of Washington, pouring]
Hark! 'tis the children of Washington, pouring
The full tide of song to the conqueror's praise,
Whose brows our young eagle, triumphantly soaring
From the dun smoke of battle, encircled with bays.
And while the choral song
Floats on the air along,
Blending the tones of the mellowing strain,
Bright o'er the melting soul
New scenes of glory roll,
Glory that spreads its broad blaze o'er the main.
The full tide of song to the conqueror's praise,
Whose brows our young eagle, triumphantly soaring
From the dun smoke of battle, encircled with bays.
And while the choral song
Floats on the air along,
Blending the tones of the mellowing strain,
Bright o'er the melting soul
New scenes of glory roll,
Glory that spreads its broad blaze o'er the main.
Hail to the brave, who, in language of thunder,
Borne on the foam-crested billows to war,
Claim of their foe no inglorious plunder,—
The trident of Neptune and Victory's car.
And, while Columbia's stars
Wave o'er her gallant tars,
Bounding in triumph along the blue deep,
See, o'er the bloody wave,
Many a Briton's grave,
The proud Queen of Ocean disconsolate weep.
Borne on the foam-crested billows to war,
Claim of their foe no inglorious plunder,—
The trident of Neptune and Victory's car.
And, while Columbia's stars
Wave o'er her gallant tars,
Bounding in triumph along the blue deep,
See, o'er the bloody wave,
Many a Briton's grave,
The proud Queen of Ocean disconsolate weep.
238
Hail to you orient star, that adorning
And gilding the skies with its ravishing light,
Blazes unquenched on the forehead of morning,
And dispels the cold gloom of oppression and night.
'T is by that ruddy glow
Slaves and their tyrant know
Freedom and Hope to the world have returned;
So shone the pilot star,
Hailed from the east afar,
That over the manger of Bethlehem burned.
And gilding the skies with its ravishing light,
Blazes unquenched on the forehead of morning,
And dispels the cold gloom of oppression and night.
'T is by that ruddy glow
Slaves and their tyrant know
Freedom and Hope to the world have returned;
So shone the pilot star,
Hailed from the east afar,
That over the manger of Bethlehem burned.
Peace to the dust, that in silence reposes
Beneath the dark boughs of the cypress and yew;
Let spring deck the spot with her earliest roses,
And heaven wash their leaves in its holiest dew.
Calm as the hero's soul,
Let the Potomac roll,
Watering the willow that over him weeps,
And, from his glassy wave,
Softly reflect the grave
Where all that was mortal of Washington sleeps.
Beneath the dark boughs of the cypress and yew;
Let spring deck the spot with her earliest roses,
And heaven wash their leaves in its holiest dew.
Calm as the hero's soul,
Let the Potomac roll,
Watering the willow that over him weeps,
And, from his glassy wave,
Softly reflect the grave
Where all that was mortal of Washington sleeps.
Hail, holy shade! we would proudly inherit
The flame that once deigned in thy bosom to glow,
While yet but one spark of thy patriot spirit,
Thy godlike benevolence, lingers below.
Ne'er let thy favorite tree,
Sacred to Liberty,
By anarchy's sulphury sirocco be riven;
But, in immortal bloom,
Rise o'er its planter's tomb,
Rich with perfume as the breezes of heaven.
The flame that once deigned in thy bosom to glow,
While yet but one spark of thy patriot spirit,
Thy godlike benevolence, lingers below.
Ne'er let thy favorite tree,
Sacred to Liberty,
By anarchy's sulphury sirocco be riven;
But, in immortal bloom,
Rise o'er its planter's tomb,
Rich with perfume as the breezes of heaven.
239
[III. Day of glory! welcome day]
Day of glory! welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,
On the heights where squadrons wheeled,
When a tyrant's thunder pealed
O'er the trembling seas.
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,
On the heights where squadrons wheeled,
When a tyrant's thunder pealed
O'er the trembling seas.
God of armies! did thy “stars
In their courses” smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn
Who for freedom died.
In their courses” smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn
Who for freedom died.
God of peace!—whose spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,
Now the storm is o'er;—
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future Washingtons
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there 's war no more.
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,
Now the storm is o'er;—
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future Washingtons
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there 's war no more.
240
By the patriot's hallowed rest,
By the warrior's gory breast,—
Never let our graves be pressed
By a despot's throne;
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,—let our heirs
Bow to Thee alone.
By the warrior's gory breast,—
Never let our graves be pressed
By a despot's throne;
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,—let our heirs
Bow to Thee alone.
[IV. The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they?]
The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they?—
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storm,
And white the shore with snow.
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storm,
And white the shore with snow.
Chorus.
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, &c.
The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;—
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
241
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;—
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
Chorus.
It is gone from the bay, where it spread that day, &c.
The Pilgrim exile,—sainted name!
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—
But the Pilgrim,—where is he?
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—
But the Pilgrim,—where is he?
Chorus.
He is not in the bay, as he was that day, &c.
The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest;
When Summer 's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.
When Summer 's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.
Chorus.
Not such was the ray, that he shed that day, &c.
The Pilgrim spirit has not fled;
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.
242
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
Chorus.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, &c.[V. O, is not this a holy spot]
O, is not this a holy spot!
'T is the high place of Freedom's birth!
God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth?
'T is the high place of Freedom's birth!
God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth?
Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow.
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow.
But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.
Here sleeps their dust; 't is holy ground;
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathered round,
To lay our offering on their grave.
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathered round,
To lay our offering on their grave.
243
Free as the winds around us blow,
Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.
Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.
But on their deeds no shade shall fall,
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame;
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame;
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
VI.
WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye who will.
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it!—From the vale
On they come!—And will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire!
244
Who have done it!—From the vale
On they come!—And will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must;—
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where Heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell!
Die we may,—and die we must;—
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where Heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell!
[VII. Two hundred years!—two hundred years]
Two hundred years!—two hundred years!
How much of human power and pride,
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!
How much of human power and pride,
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!
The red man, at his horrid rite,
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,
His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon,—
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,
His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon,—
245
His dance, his yell, his council-fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.
And that pale Pilgrim band is gone,
That, on this shore, with trembling trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on
The ark of freedom and of God.
That, on this shore, with trembling trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on
The ark of freedom and of God.
And war,—that, since, o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark,—its storm is still.
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark,—its storm is still.
Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,
Has raised, and shown, and swept along.
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,
Has raised, and shown, and swept along.
'T is like a dream when one awakes,—
This vision of the scenes of old;
'T is like the moon when morning breaks,
'T is like a tale round watch-fires told.
This vision of the scenes of old;
'T is like the moon when morning breaks,
'T is like a tale round watch-fires told.
Then what are we?—then what are we?
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.
246
God of our fathers,—in whose sight
The thousand years, that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,—
The thousand years, that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,—
Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.
[VIII. Break forth in song, ye trees]
[_]
Written for the Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Boston, September 17th, 1830.
Break forth in song, ye trees,
As, through your tops, the breeze
Sweeps from the sea!
For, on its rushing wings,
To your cool shades and springs,
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled though free.
As, through your tops, the breeze
Sweeps from the sea!
For, on its rushing wings,
To your cool shades and springs,
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled though free.
Ye sister hills, lay down
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due;—
These are the great of earth,
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great in their well proved worth,
Firm hearts and true.
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due;—
These are the great of earth,
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great in their well proved worth,
Firm hearts and true.
247
These are the living lights,
That from your bold, green heights,
Shall shine afar,
Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, toward the flame
Come, as the Magi came
Toward Bethlehem's star.
That from your bold, green heights,
Shall shine afar,
Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, toward the flame
Come, as the Magi came
Toward Bethlehem's star.
Gone are those great and good,
Who here, in peril, stood
And raised their hymn.
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim.
Who here, in peril, stood
And raised their hymn.
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim.
Ye temples, that to God
Rise where our fathers trod,
Guard well your trust,—
The faith, that dared the sea,
The truth, that made them free,
Their cherished purity,
Their garnered dust.
Rise where our fathers trod,
Guard well your trust,—
The faith, that dared the sea,
The truth, that made them free,
Their cherished purity,
Their garnered dust.
Thou high and holy One,
Whose care for sire and son
All nature fills,
While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let thy light repose
On these our hills.
Whose care for sire and son
All nature fills,
While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let thy light repose
On these our hills.
248
[IX. To Thee, beneath whose eye]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the Birth-day of George Washington, Boston, February 22d, 1832.
To Thee, beneath whose eye
Each circling century
Obedient rolls,
Our nation, in its prime,
Looked with a faith sublime,
And trusted, in “the time
That tried men's souls,”—
Each circling century
Obedient rolls,
Our nation, in its prime,
Looked with a faith sublime,
And trusted, in “the time
That tried men's souls,”—
When, from this gate of heaven,
People and priest were driven
By fire and sword,
And, where thy saints had prayed,
The harnessed war-horse neighed,
And horsemen's trumpets brayed
In harsh accord.
People and priest were driven
By fire and sword,
And, where thy saints had prayed,
The harnessed war-horse neighed,
And horsemen's trumpets brayed
In harsh accord.
Nor was our fathers' trust,
Thou Mighty One and Just,
Then put to shame;
“Up to the hills,” for light,
Looked they in peril's night,
And, from yon guardian height,
Deliverance came.
Thou Mighty One and Just,
249
“Up to the hills,” for light,
Looked they in peril's night,
And, from yon guardian height,
Deliverance came.
There, like an angel form,
Sent down to still a storm,
Stood Washington!
Clouds broke and rolled away;
Foes fled in pale dismay;
Wreathed were his brows with bay,
When war was done.
Sent down to still a storm,
Stood Washington!
Clouds broke and rolled away;
Foes fled in pale dismay;
Wreathed were his brows with bay,
When war was done.
God of our sires and sons,
Let other Washingtons
Our country bless,
And, like the brave and wise
Of by-gone centuries,
Show that true greatness lies
In righteousness.
Let other Washingtons
Our country bless,
And, like the brave and wise
Of by-gone centuries,
Show that true greatness lies
In righteousness.
The Old South Church was taken possession of by the British, while they held Boston, and converted into barracks for the cavalry, the pews being cut up for fuel, or used in constructing stalls for their horses.
From his position on Dorchester Heights, that overlook the town, General Washington succeeded in compelling the British forces to evacuate Boston.
250
[X. Long, in a nameless grave]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Battle of Lexington, April 20th, 1835.
Long, in a nameless grave,
Bones of the true and brave!
Have ye reposed.
This day, our hands have dressed,
This day, our prayers have blessed
A chamber for your rest;
And now 'tis closed.
Bones of the true and brave!
Have ye reposed.
This day, our hands have dressed,
This day, our prayers have blessed
A chamber for your rest;
And now 'tis closed.
Sleep on, ye slaughtered ones!
Your spirit, in your sons,
Shall guard your dust,
While winter comes in gloom,
While spring returns with bloom,
Nay,—till this honored tomb
Gives up its trust.
Your spirit, in your sons,
Shall guard your dust,
While winter comes in gloom,
While spring returns with bloom,
Nay,—till this honored tomb
Gives up its trust.
When war's first blast was heard,
These men stood forth to guard
Thy house, O God!
And now thy house shall keep
Its vigils where they sleep,
And long its shadow sweep
O'er their green sod.
These men stood forth to guard
Thy house, O God!
And now thy house shall keep
Its vigils where they sleep,
And long its shadow sweep
O'er their green sod.
251
In morning's prime they bled;
And morning finds their bed
With tears all wet;
Tears that thy hosts of light,
Rising in order bright,
To watch their tomb all night,
Shed for them yet.
And morning finds their bed
With tears all wet;
Tears that thy hosts of light,
Rising in order bright,
To watch their tomb all night,
Shed for them yet.
Nought shall their slumber break;
For “they shall not awake,
Nor yet be raised
Out of their sleep,” before
Thy heavens, now arching o'er
Their couch, shall be no more.—
Thy name be praised!
For “they shall not awake,
Nor yet be raised
Out of their sleep,” before
Thy heavens, now arching o'er
Their couch, shall be no more.—
Thy name be praised!
The anniversary of the battle, the 19th, occurring on Sunday, this celebration took place on the following day.
[XI. Not now, O God, beneath the trees]
[_]
Written for the Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Dedham, September 21st, 1836.
Not now, O God, beneath the trees
That shade this plain, at night's cold noon
Do Indian war-songs load the breeze,
Or wolves sit howling to the moon.
That shade this plain, at night's cold noon
Do Indian war-songs load the breeze,
Or wolves sit howling to the moon.
The foes, the fears, our fathers felt
Have, with our fathers, passed away;
And where, in their dark hours, they knelt,
We come to praise thee and to pray.
Have, with our fathers, passed away;
And where, in their dark hours, they knelt,
We come to praise thee and to pray.
252
We praise thee that thou plantedst them,
And mad'st thy heavens drop down their dew.
We pray that, shooting from their stem,
We long may flourish where they grew.
And mad'st thy heavens drop down their dew.
We pray that, shooting from their stem,
We long may flourish where they grew.
And, Father, leave us not alone;—
Thou hast been, and art still our trust;—
Be thou our fortress, till our own
Shall mingle with our fathers' dust.
Thou hast been, and art still our trust;—
Be thou our fortress, till our own
Shall mingle with our fathers' dust.
253
VIII.
PATRIOTIC AND POLITICAL PIECES.
255
I.
THE PORTRAIT.
Why does the eye, with greater pleasure, rest
On the proud oak, in vernal honors drest,
When sultry gales, that to his arms repair,
Are cooled and freshened, while they linger there;
Than when his fading robes are seared, and cast
On the cold mercy of November's blast?—
Why on the rose, when first her bosom spreads
To drink the dew that summer's evening sheds,
Or when she blushes, on her native thorn,
To meet the kisses of the smiling morn;
Than when her leaves, neglected, fall around,
Flit on the breeze, or wither on the ground?—
Why on Apollo, when his coursers rise,
And breathe on man the ardor of the skies;
Than when they stoop, their fervid limbs to rest,
And drink the cooling waters of the west?—
And why on man, when buoyant hope beats high,
Health on his cheek, and lustre in his eye,
In every limb when youth and vigor dwell,
Brace every nerve, and every muscle swell;
Than when his frame displays the ruthless rage
Of care, and sorrow, and disease, and age?—
Why, but because the Author of the mind,
Enthroned in glory, and in light enshrined,
When first he beamed, upon the breathing clay,
The light divine of intellectual day,—
Perfect himself,—infused that spark of fire,
That still pursues its nature to aspire,
And warms the bosom with a generous glow,
Whene'er it meets perfection here below,
But sinks within us, with expiring ray,
When doomed to dwell on emblems of decay?
On the proud oak, in vernal honors drest,
When sultry gales, that to his arms repair,
Are cooled and freshened, while they linger there;
Than when his fading robes are seared, and cast
On the cold mercy of November's blast?—
Why on the rose, when first her bosom spreads
To drink the dew that summer's evening sheds,
Or when she blushes, on her native thorn,
To meet the kisses of the smiling morn;
Than when her leaves, neglected, fall around,
Flit on the breeze, or wither on the ground?—
Why on Apollo, when his coursers rise,
And breathe on man the ardor of the skies;
Than when they stoop, their fervid limbs to rest,
And drink the cooling waters of the west?—
And why on man, when buoyant hope beats high,
Health on his cheek, and lustre in his eye,
256
Brace every nerve, and every muscle swell;
Than when his frame displays the ruthless rage
Of care, and sorrow, and disease, and age?—
Why, but because the Author of the mind,
Enthroned in glory, and in light enshrined,
When first he beamed, upon the breathing clay,
The light divine of intellectual day,—
Perfect himself,—infused that spark of fire,
That still pursues its nature to aspire,
And warms the bosom with a generous glow,
Whene'er it meets perfection here below,
But sinks within us, with expiring ray,
When doomed to dwell on emblems of decay?
And, if the mind can thus, delighted, scan
A tree,—a flower,—the orb of day,—a man;
How must it swell, when from the womb of earth
It sees a nation “bursting into birth,”
And, by enchantment, planting on her strand
A flag, that waving o'er the sea and land,
By stripes and stars, on silken folds unfurled,
Displays her strength and splendor to the world!—
But if this prospect cheers the heart of man,
Whether he dwells in England or Japan,
Whether he hears the billowy Baltic roar,
Or courts the breeze on Coromandel's shore;
What a strong current of delight must roll,
Resistless, o'er the veteran soldier's soul,
Who, in the volume of that nation's fame,
By Clio written, reads his General's name!—
And if, my friends, the hardy soldier's pride
Would swell his breast, with such a generous tide,
While musing on his country, while he saw
The harmonious couple, Liberty and Law,
Attend his person wheresoe'er he roved,
And shield, at home, the family he loved,—
That wife, who, yielding to her country's call,
Resigned her husband, and in him her all;—
That child, who since upon his knees has hung,
And learned the battle from his father's tongue,
And, while the soldier proudly said, “My son,
That,”—pointing to his musket,—“that 's the gun
That gave you freedom, and when you 're a man,
Use it for me, when I no longer can,”—
Would weep to hear his sire's prophetic sigh,
And see the tear that trembled in his eye;—
If such a breast would swell with such a tide,
If such a heart would glow with such a pride,
If such an eye in tears of joy would melt,
What, while on earth, must Washington have felt!
A tree,—a flower,—the orb of day,—a man;
How must it swell, when from the womb of earth
It sees a nation “bursting into birth,”
And, by enchantment, planting on her strand
A flag, that waving o'er the sea and land,
By stripes and stars, on silken folds unfurled,
Displays her strength and splendor to the world!—
But if this prospect cheers the heart of man,
Whether he dwells in England or Japan,
Whether he hears the billowy Baltic roar,
Or courts the breeze on Coromandel's shore;
What a strong current of delight must roll,
Resistless, o'er the veteran soldier's soul,
Who, in the volume of that nation's fame,
By Clio written, reads his General's name!—
257
Would swell his breast, with such a generous tide,
While musing on his country, while he saw
The harmonious couple, Liberty and Law,
Attend his person wheresoe'er he roved,
And shield, at home, the family he loved,—
That wife, who, yielding to her country's call,
Resigned her husband, and in him her all;—
That child, who since upon his knees has hung,
And learned the battle from his father's tongue,
And, while the soldier proudly said, “My son,
That,”—pointing to his musket,—“that 's the gun
That gave you freedom, and when you 're a man,
Use it for me, when I no longer can,”—
Would weep to hear his sire's prophetic sigh,
And see the tear that trembled in his eye;—
If such a breast would swell with such a tide,
If such a heart would glow with such a pride,
If such an eye in tears of joy would melt,
What, while on earth, must Washington have felt!
Thou spotless patriot! thou illustrious man!
Methinks, while yet on earth, thy heaven began;
For is there pleasure purer, more refined,
More worthy of thine own ethereal mind,
Than thrilled, with lively transport, through thy frame,
And played around thy heart, with lambent flame,
To see Columbia, guided by thy hand,
Plant, in the bosom of thy native land,
That tree that flourished so divinely fair,
And took such root, beneath thy fostering care,
As soon o'er half a continent to spread
Its fragrant leaves, and give a nation shade;—
That tree, whose root descended from the skies,
That grows by culture, but neglected dies,
That tree, beneath whose boughs thy spirit fled,
That tree, whose fading leaves deplore the dead?
And now, great Father of thy Country, say,
Ere angels bore thee to the fields of day,
Did not thine eye, with holy rapture, view
That Tree of Liberty, while yet it grew
Vigorous and green?—And did it not impart,
To every fibre of thy godlike heart,
A joy, while waving o'er thy mortal brow,
Next to the amaranth, that shades thee now?
Methinks, while yet on earth, thy heaven began;
For is there pleasure purer, more refined,
More worthy of thine own ethereal mind,
Than thrilled, with lively transport, through thy frame,
And played around thy heart, with lambent flame,
To see Columbia, guided by thy hand,
Plant, in the bosom of thy native land,
That tree that flourished so divinely fair,
And took such root, beneath thy fostering care,
258
Its fragrant leaves, and give a nation shade;—
That tree, whose root descended from the skies,
That grows by culture, but neglected dies,
That tree, beneath whose boughs thy spirit fled,
That tree, whose fading leaves deplore the dead?
And now, great Father of thy Country, say,
Ere angels bore thee to the fields of day,
Did not thine eye, with holy rapture, view
That Tree of Liberty, while yet it grew
Vigorous and green?—And did it not impart,
To every fibre of thy godlike heart,
A joy, while waving o'er thy mortal brow,
Next to the amaranth, that shades thee now?
That hero 's dead!—And does his country mourn,
Embalm his ashes in a golden urn,
And in a sculptured vault the relics lay,
Where fires, like Vesta's, emulate the day
With light divine, as through its silent halls
The holy rays reflect from porphyry walls?—
Do temples, arched with Parian marble, rise
In regal pomp, beneath these western skies,
And on their front, emblazoned by the sun,
Give to the world the name of Washington?—
Breathes he in marble, in her senate's hall?
Lives he in bronze, within her Capitol?
Does the imperial mausoleum show,
In proud magnificence, her depth of woe?
And do her children, with a holy zeal,
From rough St. Lawrence to the warm Mobile,
For pilgrim's staff, their friends, their home resign,
And, like the Arab to Mohammed's shrine,
To that majestic monument repair,
And, for their country, pour a pilgrim's prayer?
Embalm his ashes in a golden urn,
And in a sculptured vault the relics lay,
Where fires, like Vesta's, emulate the day
With light divine, as through its silent halls
The holy rays reflect from porphyry walls?—
Do temples, arched with Parian marble, rise
In regal pomp, beneath these western skies,
And on their front, emblazoned by the sun,
Give to the world the name of Washington?—
Breathes he in marble, in her senate's hall?
Lives he in bronze, within her Capitol?
Does the imperial mausoleum show,
In proud magnificence, her depth of woe?
And do her children, with a holy zeal,
From rough St. Lawrence to the warm Mobile,
259
And, like the Arab to Mohammed's shrine,
To that majestic monument repair,
And, for their country, pour a pilgrim's prayer?
Shame on that country! everlasting shame!
She bids no blazing sunbeam write his name;
His sacred ashes consecrate no urn;
No vault is sculptured, and no vestals mourn;
No marble temple meets the rising day;
No obelisk reflects the evening ray;
Those lips, long hushed in death, among his sons
Nor smile in marble, nor yet breathe in bronze;
No solemn anthem o'er his tomb is sung;
No prayer is heard there, from a pilgrim's tongue!—
But o'er the grave, where Vernon's hero sleeps,
The tall grass sighs, the waving willow weeps;
And, while the pale moon trembles through the trees,
That bend and rustle to the nightly breeze,
The bird of night,—the only mourner there,—
Pours on the chilling wind her solemn air;
While flows Potomac silently along,
And listens to her melancholy song.
She bids no blazing sunbeam write his name;
His sacred ashes consecrate no urn;
No vault is sculptured, and no vestals mourn;
No marble temple meets the rising day;
No obelisk reflects the evening ray;
Those lips, long hushed in death, among his sons
Nor smile in marble, nor yet breathe in bronze;
No solemn anthem o'er his tomb is sung;
No prayer is heard there, from a pilgrim's tongue!—
But o'er the grave, where Vernon's hero sleeps,
The tall grass sighs, the waving willow weeps;
And, while the pale moon trembles through the trees,
That bend and rustle to the nightly breeze,
The bird of night,—the only mourner there,—
Pours on the chilling wind her solemn air;
While flows Potomac silently along,
And listens to her melancholy song.
And shall, my friends, the venerable dust,
That once enshrined the spirit of THE JUST,
Slumber forgotten?—Shall no patriot's tear,
Warm as the life-blood, trickle on his bier,
And soothe his mighty shade, that hovers nigh,
To catch the tear, and mingle with the sigh,
That flows for him, or breaks the silence dread,
That fills the oblivious mansion of the dead?
Nay,—shall the freemen whom his valor saved,
For whom, in life, a thousand deaths he braved,
And on whose sons, in rich profusion, poured
The joys of peace, the trophies of his sword,
In the black robes of infamy be drest,
Because their saviour's bones unhonored rest;—
And yet shall we, who meet with kindred minds,
Whom honor animates, and friendship binds;—
We, through whose veins,—as warmly as the blood
That warms our hearts,—rolls a congenial flood
Of fearless indignation, that belongs
To federal freemen, under federal wrongs;—
Shall we, on whom his sacred mantle rests,
Who wear the badge of union on our breasts;—
Shall we neglect the few pale flowers that bloom,
And shed their fragrance, on our father's tomb,
Braving, while rooted there, thy tempest rude,
And all thy wintry frosts, Ingratitude?
Then let each string that wakes, within my soul,—
Untaught by reason, and above control,—
A tone, accordant with the notes sublime,
That trembling float upon the tide of time,
Blown from the trump of Fame, to bear along
The warrior's valor, and the poet's song,
Cease its vibration;—let oblivion, then,
That first of federalists, that first of men,
Hide from my view for ever;—let no joy
Beam on my days;—let blighting blasts destroy
My every hope;—here let me live accursed,
The best my enemies, my friends the worst;—
And when Death's icy touch shall hush my tongue,
Be no grave opened, and no requiem sung;
But, from Earth's consecrated bosom thrust,
Let asps and adders coil upon my dust!
That once enshrined the spirit of THE JUST,
Slumber forgotten?—Shall no patriot's tear,
Warm as the life-blood, trickle on his bier,
And soothe his mighty shade, that hovers nigh,
To catch the tear, and mingle with the sigh,
260
That fills the oblivious mansion of the dead?
Nay,—shall the freemen whom his valor saved,
For whom, in life, a thousand deaths he braved,
And on whose sons, in rich profusion, poured
The joys of peace, the trophies of his sword,
In the black robes of infamy be drest,
Because their saviour's bones unhonored rest;—
And yet shall we, who meet with kindred minds,
Whom honor animates, and friendship binds;—
We, through whose veins,—as warmly as the blood
That warms our hearts,—rolls a congenial flood
Of fearless indignation, that belongs
To federal freemen, under federal wrongs;—
Shall we, on whom his sacred mantle rests,
Who wear the badge of union on our breasts;—
Shall we neglect the few pale flowers that bloom,
And shed their fragrance, on our father's tomb,
Braving, while rooted there, thy tempest rude,
And all thy wintry frosts, Ingratitude?
Then let each string that wakes, within my soul,—
Untaught by reason, and above control,—
A tone, accordant with the notes sublime,
That trembling float upon the tide of time,
Blown from the trump of Fame, to bear along
The warrior's valor, and the poet's song,
Cease its vibration;—let oblivion, then,
That first of federalists, that first of men,
Hide from my view for ever;—let no joy
Beam on my days;—let blighting blasts destroy
261
The best my enemies, my friends the worst;—
And when Death's icy touch shall hush my tongue,
Be no grave opened, and no requiem sung;
But, from Earth's consecrated bosom thrust,
Let asps and adders coil upon my dust!
Then, while the hours pursue their viewless flight,
And roll along the sable car of night,
Let us, my friends, turn back our eyes, and gaze
On the bright orbs that gilded other days;
Each in his sphere, revolving round the sun,
That gave them warmth and lustre,—Washington.
But, while we see them in their orbits roll,
Bright as the stars, unshaken as the pole,
Pure as the dew, as summer's evening mild,
By no cloud shaded, by no lust defiled,
While all around their common centre sweep,
Illume the earth, or blaze along the deep,
Who, but exclaims, beneath the o'erwhelming light,
“Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight!”
And roll along the sable car of night,
Let us, my friends, turn back our eyes, and gaze
On the bright orbs that gilded other days;
Each in his sphere, revolving round the sun,
That gave them warmth and lustre,—Washington.
But, while we see them in their orbits roll,
Bright as the stars, unshaken as the pole,
Pure as the dew, as summer's evening mild,
By no cloud shaded, by no lust defiled,
While all around their common centre sweep,
Illume the earth, or blaze along the deep,
Who, but exclaims, beneath the o'erwhelming light,
“Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight!”
Thou hoary monarch! since thy tyrant hand
First shook o'er earth thy sceptre and thy sand,
Or waved thy sithe, commissioned to destroy,
O'er Balbec's columns, or the towers of Troy,—
Nay, since in youth, thou bad'st the rosy hours
Smile upon Adam, under Eden's bowers,
Hadst thou e'er seen a clime, more blest than this,
More richly fraught with beauty and with bliss?
E'er seen a brighter constellation glow,
With all that 's pure and dignified below,
Than moved, harmonious, round that wondrous man,
Whose deeds of glory with his life began,
Whose name, the proudest on thy proudest page,
Shall fill with admiration every age!
First shook o'er earth thy sceptre and thy sand,
Or waved thy sithe, commissioned to destroy,
O'er Balbec's columns, or the towers of Troy,—
Nay, since in youth, thou bad'st the rosy hours
Smile upon Adam, under Eden's bowers,
Hadst thou e'er seen a clime, more blest than this,
More richly fraught with beauty and with bliss?
262
With all that 's pure and dignified below,
Than moved, harmonious, round that wondrous man,
Whose deeds of glory with his life began,
Whose name, the proudest on thy proudest page,
Shall fill with admiration every age!
Then, with such rays as gild the morning, shone,
In peerless pomp, thy genius, Hamilton!
Sublime as heaven, and vigorous as sublime,
He, in his flight, outstripped the march of Time,
Plucked from each age the product of each soil,
And o'er thy country poured the generous spoil.
By thine own labors, without aid from France,
We saw the splendid fabric of finance,—
Beneath whose dome, confusion, in thy hands,
Order became; and (even as did the sands,
O'er which the waters of Puctolus rolled,
When Midas touched them,) paper turned to gold,—
At once, the boast and wonder of mankind,
Rise at thy spell,—the creature of thy mind.
Thus, when Amphion left Cithæron's shade,
Beside Ismenus' wave the shepherd strayed;
And, as he roamed in solitude along,
And charmed the ear of Silence with a song,
Sweeping, in symphony, his tuneful string,
That flung its wild notes on the Zephyr's wing,
The walls of Thebes with many a glittering spire,
Rose to the strong enchantment of his lyre.
Immortal statesman! while the stars shall burn,
Or to the pole the trembling needle turn,
Ne'er shall the tide of dark oblivion roll
Over that “strong divinity of soul
That conquered fate,“ and traversed, unconfined,
The various fields of matter and of mind,—
Thy heart, to charity so warmly strung,
And all the sweet persuasion of thy tongue.
Yet, wast thou spotless in thine exit?—Nay;—
Nor spotless is the monarch of the day;—
Still, but one cloud shall o'er thy fame be cast,
And that shall shade no action, but thy last.
In peerless pomp, thy genius, Hamilton!
Sublime as heaven, and vigorous as sublime,
He, in his flight, outstripped the march of Time,
Plucked from each age the product of each soil,
And o'er thy country poured the generous spoil.
By thine own labors, without aid from France,
We saw the splendid fabric of finance,—
Beneath whose dome, confusion, in thy hands,
Order became; and (even as did the sands,
O'er which the waters of Puctolus rolled,
When Midas touched them,) paper turned to gold,—
At once, the boast and wonder of mankind,
Rise at thy spell,—the creature of thy mind.
Thus, when Amphion left Cithæron's shade,
Beside Ismenus' wave the shepherd strayed;
And, as he roamed in solitude along,
And charmed the ear of Silence with a song,
Sweeping, in symphony, his tuneful string,
That flung its wild notes on the Zephyr's wing,
The walls of Thebes with many a glittering spire,
Rose to the strong enchantment of his lyre.
263
Or to the pole the trembling needle turn,
Ne'er shall the tide of dark oblivion roll
Over that “strong divinity of soul
That conquered fate,“ and traversed, unconfined,
The various fields of matter and of mind,—
Thy heart, to charity so warmly strung,
And all the sweet persuasion of thy tongue.
Yet, wast thou spotless in thine exit?—Nay;—
Nor spotless is the monarch of the day;—
Still, but one cloud shall o'er thy fame be cast,
And that shall shade no action, but thy last.
Then, with a milder, though congenial ray,
Like Hesper, shone the kindred soul of Jay.
His hand unshaken by an empire's weight,
His eye undazzled by the glare of state,
Even in the shadow of “Power's purple robe,”
He gave our land the charter of the globe,
And bade our eagle leave her native pine,
To bathe in light beneath the sultry line,
O'er every tide, with lightning's speed, to sweep,
Cleave every cloud that whitens o'er the deep,
Tower o'er the heads of conquerors and kings,
And soar to glory on her canvass wings.
Like Hesper, shone the kindred soul of Jay.
His hand unshaken by an empire's weight,
His eye undazzled by the glare of state,
Even in the shadow of “Power's purple robe,”
He gave our land the charter of the globe,
And bade our eagle leave her native pine,
To bathe in light beneath the sultry line,
O'er every tide, with lightning's speed, to sweep,
Cleave every cloud that whitens o'er the deep,
Tower o'er the heads of conquerors and kings,
And soar to glory on her canvass wings.
Then, where Ohio rolls her silver flood,
If e'er a tomahawk was dyed in blood;
Or if the war-whoop broke an infant's rest,
Where Erie drinks the rivers of the West;
Or if an arrow, from an unseen bow,
Thrown by a savage, laid a white-man low;
Or if a captive heard the hideous yell,
Or felt the tortures of those fiends of hell;—
On his pale horse the king of terrors sped,
The fires were quenched, the howling savage bled;
The grisly monarch feasted on the slain,
And blest the courage, and the sword, of Wayne.
If e'er a tomahawk was dyed in blood;
264
Where Erie drinks the rivers of the West;
Or if an arrow, from an unseen bow,
Thrown by a savage, laid a white-man low;
Or if a captive heard the hideous yell,
Or felt the tortures of those fiends of hell;—
On his pale horse the king of terrors sped,
The fires were quenched, the howling savage bled;
The grisly monarch feasted on the slain,
And blest the courage, and the sword, of Wayne.
Then,—ere, by Gallic perfidy beguiled,
“The other Adams” was again a child,—
When a grim monster rose with many a head,
More foul than e'er the lake of Lerna bred;—
Whose bloody hands no sacred tie could bind,
Whose lurid eye rolled ruin on mankind;—
And frowning dared a tribute to demand,
Of “beaucoup d'argent,” from a Pinckney's hand;—
Fire in his eye, and thunder on his tongue,
Fierce from his seat, the hoary veteran sprung,
And gave the hydra in her den to know,
He bought no friendship,—for he feared no foe.
“The other Adams” was again a child,—
When a grim monster rose with many a head,
More foul than e'er the lake of Lerna bred;—
Whose bloody hands no sacred tie could bind,
Whose lurid eye rolled ruin on mankind;—
And frowning dared a tribute to demand,
Of “beaucoup d'argent,” from a Pinckney's hand;—
Fire in his eye, and thunder on his tongue,
Fierce from his seat, the hoary veteran sprung,
And gave the hydra in her den to know,
He bought no friendship,—for he feared no foe.
265
Then, nay since then, while yet a twilight grey
Gave to our eyes the parting beams of day,—
For, when our sun, our glory, sunk to rest,
He fringed with gold the curtains of the west,
And poured a lustre on the world behind,
That faded as the mighty orb declined,—
Our eagle, soaring with unwearied flight,
'Mid clouds to enjoy the last, faint gleam of light,
With piercing eye glanced o'er the watery waste,
And saw her flag by Mussulmans disgraced;
Nay,—heard her children, on Numidia's plains,
Sigh for their homes, and clank the Moslem's chains;
The generous bird, at that incensing view,
Caught from the clouds her thunder as she flew,
With deathful shriek alarmed the guilty coast,
And launched the bolt on Caramelli's host;
Crescents and turbans sunk in wild dismay;
The Turkish soul, indignant, left its clay,—
Though to the brave, a rich reward is given,
The arms of Houris, and the bowers of heaven,—
And Eaton trod in triumph o'er his foe,
Where once fought Hannibal and Scipio.
Gave to our eyes the parting beams of day,—
For, when our sun, our glory, sunk to rest,
He fringed with gold the curtains of the west,
And poured a lustre on the world behind,
That faded as the mighty orb declined,—
Our eagle, soaring with unwearied flight,
'Mid clouds to enjoy the last, faint gleam of light,
With piercing eye glanced o'er the watery waste,
And saw her flag by Mussulmans disgraced;
Nay,—heard her children, on Numidia's plains,
Sigh for their homes, and clank the Moslem's chains;
The generous bird, at that incensing view,
Caught from the clouds her thunder as she flew,
With deathful shriek alarmed the guilty coast,
And launched the bolt on Caramelli's host;
Crescents and turbans sunk in wild dismay;
The Turkish soul, indignant, left its clay,—
Though to the brave, a rich reward is given,
The arms of Houris, and the bowers of heaven,—
And Eaton trod in triumph o'er his foe,
Where once fought Hannibal and Scipio.
Then, a bright spirit, free from every vice,
As was the rose that bloomed in Paradise;
A zeal, as warm, to see his country blest,
As lived in Cato's or Lycurgus' breast;
A fancy chaste and vigorous as strung,
To holy themes, Isaiah's hallowed tongue;
And strains as eloquent as Zion heard,
When, on his golden harp, her royal bard
Waked to a glow devotion's dying flames,
Flowed from the lips, and warmed the soul of Ames.
Like Memnon's harp, that breathed a mournful tone,
When on its strings the rays of morning shone,
That stainless spirit, on approaching night,
Was touched and saddened by prophetic light;
And, as the vision to his view was given,
That spirit sunk, and, sighing, fled to heaven.
As was the rose that bloomed in Paradise;
A zeal, as warm, to see his country blest,
As lived in Cato's or Lycurgus' breast;
A fancy chaste and vigorous as strung,
To holy themes, Isaiah's hallowed tongue;
And strains as eloquent as Zion heard,
When, on his golden harp, her royal bard
266
Flowed from the lips, and warmed the soul of Ames.
Like Memnon's harp, that breathed a mournful tone,
When on its strings the rays of morning shone,
That stainless spirit, on approaching night,
Was touched and saddened by prophetic light;
And, as the vision to his view was given,
That spirit sunk, and, sighing, fled to heaven.
Should we attempt on each bright name to dwell,
The evening song would to a volume swell;
As on a beach, where mighty surges roar,
Wave after wave rolls onward to the shore,
So, on the page that History gives to Fame,
And Fame to Glory, name succeeds to name.
See Franklin, Adams, Rutledge, gliding by;—
There Henry, Hillhouse, Trumbull, meet the eye;—
Here Ellsworth, Marshall, Tracy, rush along,
King, Griswold, Otis, Pickering, and Strong.
The evening song would to a volume swell;
As on a beach, where mighty surges roar,
Wave after wave rolls onward to the shore,
So, on the page that History gives to Fame,
And Fame to Glory, name succeeds to name.
See Franklin, Adams, Rutledge, gliding by;—
There Henry, Hillhouse, Trumbull, meet the eye;—
Here Ellsworth, Marshall, Tracy, rush along,
King, Griswold, Otis, Pickering, and Strong.
Like heavenly dew, that evening's hour distils
On Sharon's valleys or Gilboa's hills,
Men, such as these, a holy influence shed,—
Their deeds while living, and their names when dead;
Men, such as these, could guide Bellona's car,
Or smooth to smiles the iron brow of war;
Men, such as these, could brave a monarch's frown,
Could pluck the diamonds from a tyrant's crown,
And, when the oppression ceased, such men could show
A god-like greatness,—and forgive a foe;
Such men could call religion from the skies,
To guide their feet before a nation's eyes;
Where such men trod, the flowers of Science sprung,
With hymns to Peace the humble cottage rung,
Contentment spread the table of the poor,
And Ceres blushed and waved beside his door;—
All, in such men, reposed unshaken trust;
The ruled were happy, and their rulers just.
On Sharon's valleys or Gilboa's hills,
Men, such as these, a holy influence shed,—
Their deeds while living, and their names when dead;
Men, such as these, could guide Bellona's car,
Or smooth to smiles the iron brow of war;
Men, such as these, could brave a monarch's frown,
Could pluck the diamonds from a tyrant's crown,
267
A god-like greatness,—and forgive a foe;
Such men could call religion from the skies,
To guide their feet before a nation's eyes;
Where such men trod, the flowers of Science sprung,
With hymns to Peace the humble cottage rung,
Contentment spread the table of the poor,
And Ceres blushed and waved beside his door;—
All, in such men, reposed unshaken trust;
The ruled were happy, and their rulers just.
Say then, O Time! since thy pervading eye
Waked from the slumber of eternity,
Hadst thou e'er seen a spot so highly blest,
In bliss and beauty so superbly drest?
Waked from the slumber of eternity,
Hadst thou e'er seen a spot so highly blest,
In bliss and beauty so superbly drest?
When erst, beyond the bright Ægean isles,
From the green billows rose the Queen of smiles,
Pure as her parent foam, and heavenly fair;—
When her dark tresses of ambrosial hair
Flowed round her waist, in many a wanton curl,
Played in the breeze, and swept her car of pearl,
Whose amber wheels, in quick rotation, glide,
Drawn by her doves, along the sparkling tide;
While, all around her, choirs of Tritons swell
The mellow music of their twisted shell,
As on she moves, with an exulting smile,
To rear her temple on the Cyprian isle,
Or rest, voluptuous, amid springing flowers,
On rosy couches, under myrtle bowers;—
From Ida's top, the thunderer viewed the fair,
The clouds that veiled him, melting into air;
And all the beauties of the Queen of love,
In spite of Juno, fired the breast of Jove.
From the green billows rose the Queen of smiles,
Pure as her parent foam, and heavenly fair;—
When her dark tresses of ambrosial hair
Flowed round her waist, in many a wanton curl,
Played in the breeze, and swept her car of pearl,
268
Drawn by her doves, along the sparkling tide;
While, all around her, choirs of Tritons swell
The mellow music of their twisted shell,
As on she moves, with an exulting smile,
To rear her temple on the Cyprian isle,
Or rest, voluptuous, amid springing flowers,
On rosy couches, under myrtle bowers;—
From Ida's top, the thunderer viewed the fair,
The clouds that veiled him, melting into air;
And all the beauties of the Queen of love,
In spite of Juno, fired the breast of Jove.
So shone Columbia, when in happier days,
O'er eastern mountains, with “unbounded blaze”
She saw the sun of Independence rise,
And roll, rejoicing, through unclouded skies.—
So shone Columbia, when her infant hand
With magic power, along her verdant strand,
Charmed into life the city's busy throng,
And rolled of wealth the swelling tide along,
While Freedom's pure and consecrated fires
Glowed in her halls, and glittered on her spires.—
So shone Columbia, when her naval pine
Bowed, at her touch, to float beneath the line,
And proudly bear, on every wave unfurled,
Her swelling canvass o'er the watery world.—
So shone Columbia, when the trembling wave
Heard Preble's thunder, and was Somers' grave;—
So shone, whene'er she trod her native plain,—
(For she emerged, like Venus, from the main,)
Till doomed from Neptune's empire to retire,
And dew with tears the ashes of her sire.
O'er eastern mountains, with “unbounded blaze”
She saw the sun of Independence rise,
And roll, rejoicing, through unclouded skies.—
So shone Columbia, when her infant hand
With magic power, along her verdant strand,
Charmed into life the city's busy throng,
And rolled of wealth the swelling tide along,
While Freedom's pure and consecrated fires
Glowed in her halls, and glittered on her spires.—
So shone Columbia, when her naval pine
Bowed, at her touch, to float beneath the line,
And proudly bear, on every wave unfurled,
Her swelling canvass o'er the watery world.—
So shone Columbia, when the trembling wave
Heard Preble's thunder, and was Somers' grave;—
So shone, whene'er she trod her native plain,—
(For she emerged, like Venus, from the main,)
269
And dew with tears the ashes of her sire.
From realms, where, waving o'er celestial vales,
Green groves of amaranth bend to spicy gales;
From emerald rocks, where crystal water flows;
Where sainted spirits of the just repose;
Where patriots bleed not, in their country's wars,
Nor roam in beggary, nor show their scars
To their ungrateful country's tearless eye,
Nor on that country's frozen bosom die;—
But where, in peace, they breathe an air of balm,
And bind their temples with immortal palm;
Where choral symphonies no discord mars,
Nor drowns the music of the morning stars,
Who, crowned with light, around the Eternal's throne
Pour on the ravished car the mingled tone
Of voice and golden lyre, that fill the sky
With the wild notes of heavenly minstrelsy;—
There, while the star-paved walks of Heaven he trod,
Cheered by the unclouded vision of his God,
Great Washington beheld the fair; and smiled,
And said to wondering seraphs,—“Lo! my child.”
Green groves of amaranth bend to spicy gales;
From emerald rocks, where crystal water flows;
Where sainted spirits of the just repose;
Where patriots bleed not, in their country's wars,
Nor roam in beggary, nor show their scars
To their ungrateful country's tearless eye,
Nor on that country's frozen bosom die;—
But where, in peace, they breathe an air of balm,
And bind their temples with immortal palm;
Where choral symphonies no discord mars,
Nor drowns the music of the morning stars,
Who, crowned with light, around the Eternal's throne
Pour on the ravished car the mingled tone
Of voice and golden lyre, that fill the sky
With the wild notes of heavenly minstrelsy;—
There, while the star-paved walks of Heaven he trod,
Cheered by the unclouded vision of his God,
Great Washington beheld the fair; and smiled,
And said to wondering seraphs,—“Lo! my child.”
But now, how changed the scene!—Ye blissful days,
Withdraw the dazzling splendor of your blaze!
And, Memory, snatch thy record from my sight,
Whose leaves, emblazoned with the beams of light,
Pour on the eye, that glances o'er thy page,
The strong effulgence of a golden age.
Come, Lethe, come! thy tide oblivious roll
O'er all that proud complacency of soul,
That generous ardor, that enlivening flame,
That warmed my bosom, when I heard the name
Of my once honored country;—let thy wave,
Dark as Avernus, gloomy as the grave,
Drown every vestige of that country's fame,
And shade the light that bursts upon her shame!
Say,—shall we paint her as she meets the eye?
No;—drop the pallet,—throw the pencil by;—
Why should you wish that shrivelled form to trace,
Or stain the canvass with Columbia's face!
No fame awaits the artist;—though he give
Each feature life, his memory ne'er shall live;
Ne'er shall he stand in Raphael's honors drest,
Nor snatch the laurels from the brows of West.
Time was, indeed, when he who'd paint the fair,
Must mix the blending colors, soft as air;
To hit the piercing lustre of her eye,
Must catch the light and azure of the sky;
To fill the piece with corresponding glow,
Must dip his pencil in the eastern bow;
Then, o'er her locks and dimpled cheeks, must shed
The paly orange and the rose's red;—
Must shade the mellow back-ground of the scene
With mingled tints of violet and green;
Upon her lips must smiles and graces play;
The coral, melting in the dews of May,
Must just disclose the ivory beneath,
And if she breathed not, she must seem to breathe.
But let not now the merest novice dread,
(This same Columbia sitting for her head,)
With painting frenzy fired, to grasp the brush;—
He'll hit her to the life, and need not blush
To have his work inspected;—if he'll mix
The kindred streams of Acheron and Styx,
Shut close his windows, that no ray of light
May give a single feature to his sight,—
Then, on the ready canvass turn his back,
And daub it o'er with bitter and with black.
Withdraw the dazzling splendor of your blaze!
And, Memory, snatch thy record from my sight,
Whose leaves, emblazoned with the beams of light,
Pour on the eye, that glances o'er thy page,
The strong effulgence of a golden age.
270
O'er all that proud complacency of soul,
That generous ardor, that enlivening flame,
That warmed my bosom, when I heard the name
Of my once honored country;—let thy wave,
Dark as Avernus, gloomy as the grave,
Drown every vestige of that country's fame,
And shade the light that bursts upon her shame!
Say,—shall we paint her as she meets the eye?
No;—drop the pallet,—throw the pencil by;—
Why should you wish that shrivelled form to trace,
Or stain the canvass with Columbia's face!
No fame awaits the artist;—though he give
Each feature life, his memory ne'er shall live;
Ne'er shall he stand in Raphael's honors drest,
Nor snatch the laurels from the brows of West.
Time was, indeed, when he who'd paint the fair,
Must mix the blending colors, soft as air;
To hit the piercing lustre of her eye,
Must catch the light and azure of the sky;
To fill the piece with corresponding glow,
Must dip his pencil in the eastern bow;
Then, o'er her locks and dimpled cheeks, must shed
The paly orange and the rose's red;—
Must shade the mellow back-ground of the scene
With mingled tints of violet and green;
Upon her lips must smiles and graces play;
The coral, melting in the dews of May,
Must just disclose the ivory beneath,
And if she breathed not, she must seem to breathe.
271
(This same Columbia sitting for her head,)
With painting frenzy fired, to grasp the brush;—
He'll hit her to the life, and need not blush
To have his work inspected;—if he'll mix
The kindred streams of Acheron and Styx,
Shut close his windows, that no ray of light
May give a single feature to his sight,—
Then, on the ready canvass turn his back,
And daub it o'er with bitter and with black.
Look at Columbia!—see her sickly form,
Exposed, unsheltered, to the howling storm;
No friendly taper glimmering on her sight,
Her thin robes draggled in the dews of night,
Her bosom shrinking from the piercing blasts,
On Earth's cold lap her fainting limbs she casts;—
And as she sinks, despairing and forlorn,
The clouds her curtains, and her couch the thorn,
Her Evil Genius, envying e'en such rest,
Broods like an incubus upon her breast;—
Forbids the fluid through her veins to dart,
And locks up every function of her heart.
And yet, the authors of their country's shame,
(In rank, too high; in worth, too low to name,)
Viewing her dying agonies the while,
With fiend-like triumph “grin a ghastly smile.”
Exposed, unsheltered, to the howling storm;
No friendly taper glimmering on her sight,
Her thin robes draggled in the dews of night,
Her bosom shrinking from the piercing blasts,
On Earth's cold lap her fainting limbs she casts;—
And as she sinks, despairing and forlorn,
The clouds her curtains, and her couch the thorn,
Her Evil Genius, envying e'en such rest,
Broods like an incubus upon her breast;—
Forbids the fluid through her veins to dart,
And locks up every function of her heart.
272
(In rank, too high; in worth, too low to name,)
Viewing her dying agonies the while,
With fiend-like triumph “grin a ghastly smile.”
Look at our Commerce!—driven from the deep,
Our sails no more its curling surface sweep;
No more the silks of India swell our stores;
No more Arabia's gums perfume our shores;
But Desolation hovers o'er our ships
With raven pinions;—and with skinny lips,
And cheeks all shrivelled, Famine stalks our streets,
And clings, with withered hand, to all she meets.
Our sails no more its curling surface sweep;
No more the silks of India swell our stores;
No more Arabia's gums perfume our shores;
But Desolation hovers o'er our ships
With raven pinions;—and with skinny lips,
And cheeks all shrivelled, Famine stalks our streets,
And clings, with withered hand, to all she meets.
Look at our army!—See its bristling van,
Led on to conquest by that wondrous man,
Who dares the aid of powder to despise,
And “looks down opposition” with his eyes!
See! how the forests shudder as he comes!
How their recesses echo to his drums!
See him, with Victory perching on his crest,
Leap boldly o'er the barriers of the West,
And bid his eagles, stooping to the plain,
Fix their strong talons in the Lion's mane!—
Then see him, wheeling with resistless sweep,
Exchange his army—for a flock of sheep!
Led on to conquest by that wondrous man,
Who dares the aid of powder to despise,
And “looks down opposition” with his eyes!
See! how the forests shudder as he comes!
How their recesses echo to his drums!
See him, with Victory perching on his crest,
Leap boldly o'er the barriers of the West,
And bid his eagles, stooping to the plain,
Fix their strong talons in the Lion's mane!—
Then see him, wheeling with resistless sweep,
Exchange his army—for a flock of sheep!
273
Look at our navy!—does it proudly ride,
And roll its thunders o'er the subject tide,
As once it rode and thundered? Rogers, say,
When, from our coasts, thy squadron bore away,
Stretched o'er the Atlantic, and its flags unfurled,
To catch the breezes of the Eastern world,
Sought for a foe on Afric's sultry shores,
And ploughed the circling waves, that washed the Azores;
For thee, what garlands floated on the main?
What did thy squadron?—It came back again!
And roll its thunders o'er the subject tide,
As once it rode and thundered? Rogers, say,
When, from our coasts, thy squadron bore away,
Stretched o'er the Atlantic, and its flags unfurled,
To catch the breezes of the Eastern world,
Sought for a foe on Afric's sultry shores,
And ploughed the circling waves, that washed the Azores;
For thee, what garlands floated on the main?
What did thy squadron?—It came back again!
How gratefully, amid the horrid gloom,
That rests incumbent on our Honor's tomb,
Should we all hail one solitary ray,
Were it indeed the harbinger of day;—
When even now, amid the tenfold night
Of dark despair, we hail, with fond delight,
Nay, with triumphant pride, the beam that 's poured,
Conqueror of Dacres, from thy flaming sword!
Then, would the patriot's heart, that sinks oppressed
By humbling shame, throb proudly in his breast;
Then, would he say, “The reign of night is o'er!
The day is dawning that shall close no more!
My hopes were sunk; but brighter prospects rise,
And other suns shall yet adorn our skies.
Thus would the ear, when fever fires the brain,
Restless, all night, with sympathetic pain,
By jarring discord's harshest gratings torn,
Wake to the airy melodies of morn.”
But now, what is it? 'T is the lightning's glare,
That flames at midnight through the murky air,
And shows what clouds the face of heaven deform,
And all the fearful horrors of the storm.
Thus, when Apollo to his son resigned
His car and coursers, to illume mankind,
His car and coursers, stooping from the skies,
Cleft earth with heat, and opened to the eyes
Of the pale tenants of the realms below,
The boundless chaos, and the scenes of woe,
That reigned around;—e'en Pluto and his bride,
Who swayed the infernal sceptre, side by side,
Trembled beneath the intolerable light;—
And the ghosts shrunk and shuddered at the sight.
Still, gallant Hull, the meed of praise is thine,
Still Victory's wreaths around thy brow shall twine,
Still, child of Washington, thy name shall live,
While valor immortality can give!
That rests incumbent on our Honor's tomb,
Should we all hail one solitary ray,
Were it indeed the harbinger of day;—
When even now, amid the tenfold night
Of dark despair, we hail, with fond delight,
Nay, with triumphant pride, the beam that 's poured,
Conqueror of Dacres, from thy flaming sword!
Then, would the patriot's heart, that sinks oppressed
By humbling shame, throb proudly in his breast;
Then, would he say, “The reign of night is o'er!
The day is dawning that shall close no more!
My hopes were sunk; but brighter prospects rise,
And other suns shall yet adorn our skies.
Thus would the ear, when fever fires the brain,
Restless, all night, with sympathetic pain,
274
Wake to the airy melodies of morn.”
But now, what is it? 'T is the lightning's glare,
That flames at midnight through the murky air,
And shows what clouds the face of heaven deform,
And all the fearful horrors of the storm.
Thus, when Apollo to his son resigned
His car and coursers, to illume mankind,
His car and coursers, stooping from the skies,
Cleft earth with heat, and opened to the eyes
Of the pale tenants of the realms below,
The boundless chaos, and the scenes of woe,
That reigned around;—e'en Pluto and his bride,
Who swayed the infernal sceptre, side by side,
Trembled beneath the intolerable light;—
And the ghosts shrunk and shuddered at the sight.
Still, gallant Hull, the meed of praise is thine,
Still Victory's wreaths around thy brow shall twine,
Still, child of Washington, thy name shall live,
While valor immortality can give!
Hark!—as it shuts, with triple-bolted bars,
The ponderous door on grating hinges jars;
The massy key springs the reluctant locks;
Echoes the clang from adamantine rocks;—
There, in a dungeon's gloom, 'mid vapors dank,
Where rattle manacles, and fetters clank,
To perfidy and treachery self-resigned,
Children of Liberty, were ye confined!
Children of Honor, thither basely led!
Children of Washington,—'t was there ye bled!
And why?—What nameless deed that hates the sun,
And courts congenial darkness, had ye done?
Some ruined virgin had ye left to sigh,
And die in guilt, or live in infamy?
Covered her father's reverend cheeks with shame?
Or shot her brother to redeem your fame?—
No; but in times like these, when Virtue weeps,
When high-born Honor in retirement sleeps,
When Vice triumphant fills the chair of state,
When most great men are infamously great,
When sots and demagogues to election come,—
Those to give votes and these to pay in rum,—
When place is venal, nay, by auction bought,
Ye dared to think, and publish as ye thought!
The ponderous door on grating hinges jars;
The massy key springs the reluctant locks;
Echoes the clang from adamantine rocks;—
There, in a dungeon's gloom, 'mid vapors dank,
Where rattle manacles, and fetters clank,
275
Children of Liberty, were ye confined!
Children of Honor, thither basely led!
Children of Washington,—'t was there ye bled!
And why?—What nameless deed that hates the sun,
And courts congenial darkness, had ye done?
Some ruined virgin had ye left to sigh,
And die in guilt, or live in infamy?
Covered her father's reverend cheeks with shame?
Or shot her brother to redeem your fame?—
No; but in times like these, when Virtue weeps,
When high-born Honor in retirement sleeps,
When Vice triumphant fills the chair of state,
When most great men are infamously great,
When sots and demagogues to election come,—
Those to give votes and these to pay in rum,—
When place is venal, nay, by auction bought,
Ye dared to think, and publish as ye thought!
Hark!—'t is the Demon!—at the door he treads!
Alecto's mantle shrouds his hundred heads;
Back fly the bolts; his bloody eye-balls glare;
Long, dangling snakes hiss in his horrent hair;
Blue flames of sulphur issue from his jaws;
Each giant hand a naked dagger draws;
The steely clashing echoes from the walls,
And at his feet the hoary Lingan falls!
The monster speaks;—“There, traitor, take thy rest!
Ha!—are those scars, that scam thy aged breast?—
And didst thou think ‘those poor dumb wounds would plead,
Like angels, trumpet-tongued,’ against my deed?
Simple old fool!—I glory in my work;—
Here,—see thy blood that trickles from my dirk!
Die not, till thou hast seen what joy I feel,
To kiss that trophy of my faithful steel;—
That trophy must command a generous price,
Where I shall show it;—great men are not nice,
Who have employed me in these high affairs;
I'll have my pay,—as doubtless they have theirs
From those, who still a prouder state enjoy,—
Who bribed Speranski, —and who bought Godoy!
Ah! not yet dead!—give me thy hoary locks,
And let thy brains besmear these gory rocks;—
Thus do I dash thee,—Tory as thou art,—
Thus drink thy blood,—thus craunch thy quivering heart!”
Alecto's mantle shrouds his hundred heads;
Back fly the bolts; his bloody eye-balls glare;
Long, dangling snakes hiss in his horrent hair;
Blue flames of sulphur issue from his jaws;
Each giant hand a naked dagger draws;
The steely clashing echoes from the walls,
And at his feet the hoary Lingan falls!
276
Ha!—are those scars, that scam thy aged breast?—
And didst thou think ‘those poor dumb wounds would plead,
Like angels, trumpet-tongued,’ against my deed?
Simple old fool!—I glory in my work;—
Here,—see thy blood that trickles from my dirk!
Die not, till thou hast seen what joy I feel,
To kiss that trophy of my faithful steel;—
That trophy must command a generous price,
Where I shall show it;—great men are not nice,
Who have employed me in these high affairs;
I'll have my pay,—as doubtless they have theirs
277
Who bribed Speranski, —and who bought Godoy!
Ah! not yet dead!—give me thy hoary locks,
And let thy brains besmear these gory rocks;—
Thus do I dash thee,—Tory as thou art,—
Thus drink thy blood,—thus craunch thy quivering heart!”
Soul of the brave, look backward in thy flight;
Our eyes pursue thee till thou 'rt lost in light;
There rest in peace, thy earthly pains forgot;—
Soul of the brave, how happy is thy lot!
Our eyes pursue thee till thou 'rt lost in light;
There rest in peace, thy earthly pains forgot;—
Soul of the brave, how happy is thy lot!
Johnson, Montgomery, Stricker!—when grim Death
Shall stop the volumes of mephitic breath,
That spread contagion round you; when your ear
The curse of freemen can no longer hear;
Your memory like your carcasses shall rot,
On earth detested,—in the grave forgot.
While Lingan, Hanson, Thompson, Biglow fire
The poet's raptures, and the minstrel's lyre,
Rise, their deluded countrymen to bless,
And, from the ruins of the falling Press,
Diffuse such lustre, as dispels the gloom
From Sidney's scaffold and from Hampden's tomb.
Shall stop the volumes of mephitic breath,
That spread contagion round you; when your ear
The curse of freemen can no longer hear;
Your memory like your carcasses shall rot,
On earth detested,—in the grave forgot.
278
The poet's raptures, and the minstrel's lyre,
Rise, their deluded countrymen to bless,
And, from the ruins of the falling Press,
Diffuse such lustre, as dispels the gloom
From Sidney's scaffold and from Hampden's tomb.
When on the ruins of Palmyra's walls,
Through fleecy clouds, the sober moonlight falls,
Trembling among the ivy leaves, that shade
The crumbling arch and broken colonnade,
As some lone bard, that gives his silver hair
To float, dishevelled, on the sighing air,
While glories, long departed, rush along,
Pours on the ear of night, in mournful song,
The fond remembrance of that splendid day,
When round Longinus' temples twined the bay,
When on those towers the beams of science shone,
And princes kneeled around Zenobia's throne;—
Some future minstrel thus his lyre shall sweep,
Where glides Potomac to the azure deep.
Through fleecy clouds, the sober moonlight falls,
Trembling among the ivy leaves, that shade
The crumbling arch and broken colonnade,
As some lone bard, that gives his silver hair
To float, dishevelled, on the sighing air,
While glories, long departed, rush along,
Pours on the ear of night, in mournful song,
The fond remembrance of that splendid day,
When round Longinus' temples twined the bay,
When on those towers the beams of science shone,
And princes kneeled around Zenobia's throne;—
Some future minstrel thus his lyre shall sweep,
Where glides Potomac to the azure deep.
“Where now these ruins moulder on the ground,
Where Desolation walks her silent round,
The slippery serpent drags his sinuous trail,
To marble columns clings the slimy snail,
The solemn raven croaks, the cricket sings,
And bats and owlets flap their sooty wings;—
Once, a proud temple rose, with front sublime,
By Wisdom reared, to brave the shocks of Time,
And consecrated to the smiling Three,
Religion, Peace, and Civil Liberty.
Its earliest priests, in stainless robes arrayed,
By no threats daunted, by no arts betrayed,
Ne'er let the censer nor the olive drop,
Though clouds and tempests brooded o'er its top.
Time brought their pious labors to a close;
Others succeeded, and new scenes arose;—
The hovering tempests fell upon its walls,
The brooding clouds were welcomed to its halls,
The shuddering altars felt the fires of hell,
The olive withered, and the censer fell,
The columns broke, the trembling arches frowned,
The Temple sunk, and ruin stalks around.”
Where Desolation walks her silent round,
The slippery serpent drags his sinuous trail,
To marble columns clings the slimy snail,
The solemn raven croaks, the cricket sings,
And bats and owlets flap their sooty wings;—
Once, a proud temple rose, with front sublime,
By Wisdom reared, to brave the shocks of Time,
279
Religion, Peace, and Civil Liberty.
Its earliest priests, in stainless robes arrayed,
By no threats daunted, by no arts betrayed,
Ne'er let the censer nor the olive drop,
Though clouds and tempests brooded o'er its top.
Time brought their pious labors to a close;
Others succeeded, and new scenes arose;—
The hovering tempests fell upon its walls,
The brooding clouds were welcomed to its halls,
The shuddering altars felt the fires of hell,
The olive withered, and the censer fell,
The columns broke, the trembling arches frowned,
The Temple sunk, and ruin stalks around.”
Geneva, the native country of A. Gallatin, our present Secretary of the Treasury, now (1812) forms a part of the French Empire.
John Randolph's cutting distinction between the late President and the truly republican Samuel Adams.
Both the text and the notes of this poem occasionally show the warmth of political feeling, and the strength of party prejudice, that belonged to the time when it was written. Both text and notes are allowed to remain, as memorials of fires that raged once, but have long since gone out.
The reader will trace the outline of this scene, in the following passage from Akenside.
“Or as Venus, when she stoodEffulgent on her pearly car, and smiled,
Fresh from the deep, and conscious of her form,
To see the Tritons tune their vocal shells,
And each cærulean sister of the flood,
With loud acclaim, attend her o'er the waves,
To seek the Idalian bower.”
Pleasures of Imagination.
Two rivers, said by mythologists to flow through the infernal regions, the one remarkable for the bitter taste, and the other for the “inky hue” of its waters.
“The virtue of the people, &c. routed and put to flight that corruption, which sat like an incubus on the heart of the metropolis, chaining the current of its blood, and locking up every healthful function and energy of life.” Curran's Speech on the Election of Lord Mayor.
“I have a force which will look down all opposition.”—Hull's emancipating Proclamation to the Oppressed Canadians, July 12th, 1812.
Some of the early bulletins of the northwestern army give an account of having taken prisoners eight hundred and thirty Merino sheep.
Look at the Commodore's own account of this “scurvy” expedition, in his letter to the Secretary of the Navy, September 1st, 1812.
For the particulars of the ruin in which Phaëton involved not only himself, but the world, by his rash experiment at illuminating mankind, see Ovid's Metamorphoses, Lib. ii.
The reader of the present day may need to be informed that this passage relates to the Baltimore Mob of 1812;—that had taken place just before this poem was written; that had for its object the suppression of Hanson's “Federal Republican”; and that resulted on the destruction of the printing office,—the storming of the city prison within whose cells the defenders of the press had allowed themselves to be locked up, as the only protection the laws could afford them from popular violence,—and in the murder of the venerable General Lingan, within those cells!
This, I believe, was the first of a series,—disgraceful to our land,—of mobs for the suppression of the liberty of the press and of discussion, and for the destruction of the lives of its defenders. That in Philadelphia, May 17th, 1838, in which Pennsylvania Hall was burnt, is, I believe, the last. May it ever be! These lines, now more than a quarter of a century old, show that my indignation towards mobs is no new flame.
1840.“Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths!
And bid them speak for me.”
Julius Cæsar. “His virtues
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking off.”
Macbeth.
And bid them speak for me.”
Julius Cæsar. “His virtues
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking off.”
Macbeth.
Speranski, raised by the Emperor Alexander from humble life to the highest civil office in the Russian empire,—lately banished to Siberia, for communicating to Buonaparte the whole plan of the Emperor's operations in the present war.
Godoy, the infamous Prince of Peace, who, while he enjoyed all the wealth and honor his King could lavish upon him, as well as all the more flattering favors of his Queen, held a treasonable correspondence with the Tyrant of France, the object of which was the destruction of the Spanish monarchy. Thus we see, that from Madrid to St. Petersburgh, neither wealth, nor power, nor love can resist the omnipotence of French intrigue. Are its operations confined to the Eastern continent?
280
II.
NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS,
Years roll along; and, as they glide away
In silent lapse, on every New-Year's day
'T is claimed by custom that we carriers sing;
And thus the tribute of the Muse we bring.
Not that the strain with classic smoothness flows,
Nor that the same might not be said in prose;
But while there's nought the fancy to amuse,
Or waken wonder in the form of news,
You'll pause with pleasure, in this gloomy season,
If song be sense, and if our rhyme be reason,—
While all around us clouds and tempests lower,
The frosts of winter, and the frown of power,—
To listen where a rippling rill of rhyme
Steals through the wild and dreary waste of Time.
In silent lapse, on every New-Year's day
'T is claimed by custom that we carriers sing;
And thus the tribute of the Muse we bring.
Not that the strain with classic smoothness flows,
Nor that the same might not be said in prose;
But while there's nought the fancy to amuse,
Or waken wonder in the form of news,
You'll pause with pleasure, in this gloomy season,
If song be sense, and if our rhyme be reason,—
While all around us clouds and tempests lower,
The frosts of winter, and the frown of power,—
To listen where a rippling rill of rhyme
Steals through the wild and dreary waste of Time.
No pomp of battle shall our numbers swell;
No deathless wreaths for those who fought and fell
Shall we entwine; nor pour a mournful dirge
O'er those, who, sinking in the swallowing surge,
Saw, e'er they sunk into their billowy grave,
The sword of Blakeley, gleaming o'er the wave,
Pluck the green laurel from the azure plain,
And from the mighty mistress of the main;—
Nor yet o'er those who fell with equal fame,
On sweeter waters, though of humbler name;
Who by Macdonough to the combat led,
By valor conquered, and with glory bled.
No deathless wreaths for those who fought and fell
Shall we entwine; nor pour a mournful dirge
O'er those, who, sinking in the swallowing surge,
Saw, e'er they sunk into their billowy grave,
The sword of Blakeley, gleaming o'er the wave,
281
And from the mighty mistress of the main;—
Nor yet o'er those who fell with equal fame,
On sweeter waters, though of humbler name;
Who by Macdonough to the combat led,
By valor conquered, and with glory bled.
Here check the Muse, e'er yet in full career,
And pay the passing tribute of a tear
To the brave tars who triumphed on the wave,
But e'en in victory found a watery grave;—
Who sunk in silence, and now sweetly sleep
Within the coral caverns of the deep.
Still shall their spirits hover o'er the flood,
Now stained and rendered sacred by their blood,
From where St. Lawrence spreads his bosom wide
And meets the main with his gigantic tide,
To where Champlain his emerald basin fills
With crystal waters from surrounding hills.
Still shall their ghosts on the dark tempest ride,
Still o'er the fury of the fight preside;
Still of their country claim a generous tear,
Pledged by their comrades each returning year;
And, as their memory consecrates the bowl,
Swell the rich tide in each congenial soul,
As kindred streams to kindred oceans roll.
And pay the passing tribute of a tear
To the brave tars who triumphed on the wave,
But e'en in victory found a watery grave;—
Who sunk in silence, and now sweetly sleep
Within the coral caverns of the deep.
Still shall their spirits hover o'er the flood,
Now stained and rendered sacred by their blood,
From where St. Lawrence spreads his bosom wide
And meets the main with his gigantic tide,
To where Champlain his emerald basin fills
With crystal waters from surrounding hills.
Still shall their ghosts on the dark tempest ride,
Still o'er the fury of the fight preside;
Still of their country claim a generous tear,
Pledged by their comrades each returning year;
And, as their memory consecrates the bowl,
Swell the rich tide in each congenial soul,
As kindred streams to kindred oceans roll.
Peace to their shades!—nor let the Muse presume
O'er Europe's fields to wave the historic plume;
For me to sing, or you to hear the song,
Of e'en her mighty deeds were far too long.
One moment still, as o'er her fields I run,
I pause to hail the splendor of the sun,
That rises cloudless from her vales of blood,
Gilds the blue mountain, glances on the flood,
Darts his glad beams to even the Atlantic shore,
And lights the waves that whiten as they roar.
O'er Europe's fields to wave the historic plume;
For me to sing, or you to hear the song,
Of e'en her mighty deeds were far too long.
282
I pause to hail the splendor of the sun,
That rises cloudless from her vales of blood,
Gilds the blue mountain, glances on the flood,
Darts his glad beams to even the Atlantic shore,
And lights the waves that whiten as they roar.
But stop;—while gazing upon eastern glory,
The time runs on, and I delay my story.
The time runs on, and I delay my story.
Surrounded by his parasites and tools,—
Those arrant knaves, and these as arrant fools;
Those raised to seats of power for what they 'd said,
And these kept in them by congenial lead,
But all pure patriots,—sat in full divan
A mighty statesman, but a little man.
Though short his person, 't was genteelly slim,
His step was stately, and his dress was prim;
Proud of his station, of himself still prouder,
His shirt no plaiting lacked, his hair no powder.—
'T was silence all, when thus the sage expressed
The calm complacency that filled his breast:
Those arrant knaves, and these as arrant fools;
Those raised to seats of power for what they 'd said,
And these kept in them by congenial lead,
But all pure patriots,—sat in full divan
A mighty statesman, but a little man.
Though short his person, 't was genteelly slim,
His step was stately, and his dress was prim;
Proud of his station, of himself still prouder,
His shirt no plaiting lacked, his hair no powder.—
'T was silence all, when thus the sage expressed
The calm complacency that filled his breast:
“Oh happy state, where foes each other claw,
Where power is liberty, and license law;
All then are fools, if not of all possessed,
Which, wanted, leaves a void within the breast,
And thus are we, my friends, supremely blest.
But, if we all are blest in stations high,
Then how superlatively so am I!
Ask for what end yourselves around me shine?
Each for whose use?—I answer, whose but mine!
Me the kind nation clothes with boundless power,
And feeds with sweetest herbs and finest flour;
Annual for me does either house renew
The tax on whisky,—never paid when due;
To me the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me wealth gushes from a thousand springs;
Blacks count, to choose me, mobs to help me rise;
Be earth my throne, and never mind the skies.
Where power is liberty, and license law;
All then are fools, if not of all possessed,
Which, wanted, leaves a void within the breast,
And thus are we, my friends, supremely blest.
But, if we all are blest in stations high,
Then how superlatively so am I!
283
Each for whose use?—I answer, whose but mine!
Me the kind nation clothes with boundless power,
And feeds with sweetest herbs and finest flour;
Annual for me does either house renew
The tax on whisky,—never paid when due;
To me the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me wealth gushes from a thousand springs;
Blacks count, to choose me, mobs to help me rise;
Be earth my throne, and never mind the skies.
“How doubly blest in this propitious hour,
Are those who gave, or we who stole, the power,
To banish commerce from each busy mart,
To check the warm tide bounding through the heart,
Lest, should the current too profusely spread,
Dance through the limbs, and riot in the head,
It might gush out through some unguarded chink,
And the poor patient through exhaustion sink.
True, we deny the multitude their wishes;—
But what of that?—we take their loaves and fishes;
For, faithful to the wise Egyptian law,
We claim their bricks, though we refuse them straw;
While they are ‘prompt,’ the dear, enlightened elves,
To feed their rulers, though they starve themselves.
O happy rulers, who can taxes lay!
O happy people, who must taxes pay!—
But ha!—what awful vision meets my sight,
That moves majestic, though involved in night!
Pale sheets of lightning quiver on the cloud,
That robes some demon in a sulphurous shroud,
And hark! the swelling thunder rolls aloud.
'T is he, 't is War!—I snuff his blasting breath!
Save me, my friends, then save yourselves, from death!”
Are those who gave, or we who stole, the power,
To banish commerce from each busy mart,
To check the warm tide bounding through the heart,
Lest, should the current too profusely spread,
Dance through the limbs, and riot in the head,
It might gush out through some unguarded chink,
And the poor patient through exhaustion sink.
True, we deny the multitude their wishes;—
But what of that?—we take their loaves and fishes;
For, faithful to the wise Egyptian law,
We claim their bricks, though we refuse them straw;
While they are ‘prompt,’ the dear, enlightened elves,
To feed their rulers, though they starve themselves.
O happy rulers, who can taxes lay!
O happy people, who must taxes pay!—
But ha!—what awful vision meets my sight,
That moves majestic, though involved in night!
284
That robes some demon in a sulphurous shroud,
And hark! the swelling thunder rolls aloud.
'T is he, 't is War!—I snuff his blasting breath!
Save me, my friends, then save yourselves, from death!”
Pale as the plaster, sunk the great beholder,
Cold as the marble of the floor, or colder.
Cold as the marble of the floor, or colder.
Meantime, 'mid lurid smoke and withering flame,
In gloomy pomp, the Fiend of darkness came.
Two dragons fierce, by spells infernal bound,
Roll on his iron car, that shakes the ground!
Their breath around a hellish horror flings,
That darkens as they flap their leathern wings;
While viscid drops exude between the scales,
That rustle as they writhe their coiling tails;—
Heaven frowns above them, earth, with hollow groan,
Shudders beneath the steeds of Phlegethon.
The Fiend, who goaded on the panting pair,
Had wreathed his temples, and his clotted hair,
With shrivelled hemlock and with cypress round;—
So should the gory God of War be crowned.
His stiffening locks on his broad shoulders curled;—
O'er him his bloody banner was unfurled;—
He breathes, and dun smoke rolls in volumes dire;—
Beneath his black brow, flash his eyes of fire;—
In either hand he waves a weapon fell,
In this a glowing shot, in that a shell,
Both snatched still hissing from the forge of hell.
And round the Demon, as in wrath he comes,
Bright bayonets bristle, burst the bellowing bombs,
Red rockets dart, and rattling roll the drums.
In gloomy pomp, the Fiend of darkness came.
Two dragons fierce, by spells infernal bound,
Roll on his iron car, that shakes the ground!
Their breath around a hellish horror flings,
That darkens as they flap their leathern wings;
While viscid drops exude between the scales,
That rustle as they writhe their coiling tails;—
Heaven frowns above them, earth, with hollow groan,
Shudders beneath the steeds of Phlegethon.
The Fiend, who goaded on the panting pair,
Had wreathed his temples, and his clotted hair,
With shrivelled hemlock and with cypress round;—
So should the gory God of War be crowned.
His stiffening locks on his broad shoulders curled;—
O'er him his bloody banner was unfurled;—
He breathes, and dun smoke rolls in volumes dire;—
Beneath his black brow, flash his eyes of fire;—
In either hand he waves a weapon fell,
In this a glowing shot, in that a shell,
Both snatched still hissing from the forge of hell.
285
Bright bayonets bristle, burst the bellowing bombs,
Red rockets dart, and rattling roll the drums.
The affrighted chief, who on the floor had sunk,
With “brief authority,” not brandy, drunk,
Burst the cold bands of syncopè asunder,
And, starting as he heard the approaching thunder,
Sprung from the floor and cried with all his force,
“A horse! a horse!—my kingdom for a horse!”
His steed, obedient to his sovereign's call,
In splendid trappings bounded from his stall,
Neighed as he stopped before the palace gate,
And kneeled expectant of the illustrious freight.
Quick to his seat the enlightened statesman sprung;—
The conscious saddle creaked, the stirrups rung,
Loud cracked the lash, loose hung the useless rein,
And floated freely on his courser's mane.
Swift though that courser bore his lord from home,
Whitening his dusty flanks with flakes of foam,
Yet for those flanks the rider felt no bowels,
But galled them sorely with his bloody rowels,
Nor once looked backward till far on the way
That leads from Washington to Montpelier.
With “brief authority,” not brandy, drunk,
Burst the cold bands of syncopè asunder,
And, starting as he heard the approaching thunder,
Sprung from the floor and cried with all his force,
“A horse! a horse!—my kingdom for a horse!”
His steed, obedient to his sovereign's call,
In splendid trappings bounded from his stall,
Neighed as he stopped before the palace gate,
And kneeled expectant of the illustrious freight.
Quick to his seat the enlightened statesman sprung;—
The conscious saddle creaked, the stirrups rung,
Loud cracked the lash, loose hung the useless rein,
And floated freely on his courser's mane.
Swift though that courser bore his lord from home,
Whitening his dusty flanks with flakes of foam,
Yet for those flanks the rider felt no bowels,
But galled them sorely with his bloody rowels,
Nor once looked backward till far on the way
That leads from Washington to Montpelier.
Immortal Gilpin! did thy charger caper,
Charged though he were with the bold linen-draper;
With hoofs of iron spurn the paving-stones,
Nor heed thy bottles, nor regard thy bones,—
Though those were dashed to atoms at thy back,
And these endured the tortures of the rack?—
Did his high mettle, heedless of the rein,
Prompt him, without a scourge, to scour the plain
With such resistless fury as to baffle
The united force of martingal and snaffle?
Such fury as to leave thy hat behind,
And give thy wig, all powdered, to the wind?
Such that nor bits could curb, nor turnpikes check?
(Much to the peril, Gilpin, of thy neck;)
Did postboys see thee pass like lightning by,
Mount their fleet steeds, and raise their hue and cry;
And in this crisis did thy generous steed,
As they increased their noise, increase his speed?
And didst thou, finding all thy efforts vain
To curb him with thy bridle, drop the rein,
And, to thyself lest there might happen some ill,
With this hand grasp the mane, with that the pommel,
And, leaning forward, to their Fates resign
Thy wife, thy wig, thy bottles, and thy wine;
Till far behind the chase was heard no more,
And thy good steed had halted at thy door,
And dropped thee, bruised and weary, from the crupper,
But just in season to sit down to supper?
O Captain Gilpin, hush!—no longer seek
To palm thy tale upon us as unique;
For, as his homeward course our hero steers,
Leaving his palace to “his valiant peers,”
These seem resolved, if there is aught in speed,
Ne'er to desert him “in his utmost need,”
And least of all to stay, and at the altar bleed.
Thus ever duteous, each his groom bestirs,
Pulls on his boots, and buckles on his spurs,
Ne'er asks the question, which demands him most,
In danger's hour, his pony or his post,
But mounts at once, and à la mode de Boncy,
Deserts his post, and pricks his prancing pony.
Yet, gentle reader, do not think that fear
Impelled their heels, to urge their swift career;
They knew not fear, for, even when the air
Smelt strong of powder, they could nobly dare,
Could laugh at balls as they innoxious fell,
And,—when it once had burst,—despise a shell;
Nay one, 't is said, whose birth the auspicious stars
Had kindly cast beneath the sign of Mars,
E'en cracked his whip at an expiring rocket,
(He had, it seems, his pistols in his pocket,)
Nor was he by his bravery incommoded,
For, strange to tell, the rocket ne'er exploded!
Charged though he were with the bold linen-draper;
With hoofs of iron spurn the paving-stones,
Nor heed thy bottles, nor regard thy bones,—
Though those were dashed to atoms at thy back,
And these endured the tortures of the rack?—
286
Prompt him, without a scourge, to scour the plain
With such resistless fury as to baffle
The united force of martingal and snaffle?
Such fury as to leave thy hat behind,
And give thy wig, all powdered, to the wind?
Such that nor bits could curb, nor turnpikes check?
(Much to the peril, Gilpin, of thy neck;)
Did postboys see thee pass like lightning by,
Mount their fleet steeds, and raise their hue and cry;
And in this crisis did thy generous steed,
As they increased their noise, increase his speed?
And didst thou, finding all thy efforts vain
To curb him with thy bridle, drop the rein,
And, to thyself lest there might happen some ill,
With this hand grasp the mane, with that the pommel,
And, leaning forward, to their Fates resign
Thy wife, thy wig, thy bottles, and thy wine;
Till far behind the chase was heard no more,
And thy good steed had halted at thy door,
And dropped thee, bruised and weary, from the crupper,
But just in season to sit down to supper?
O Captain Gilpin, hush!—no longer seek
To palm thy tale upon us as unique;
For, as his homeward course our hero steers,
Leaving his palace to “his valiant peers,”
These seem resolved, if there is aught in speed,
Ne'er to desert him “in his utmost need,”
And least of all to stay, and at the altar bleed.
Thus ever duteous, each his groom bestirs,
Pulls on his boots, and buckles on his spurs,
287
In danger's hour, his pony or his post,
But mounts at once, and à la mode de Boncy,
Deserts his post, and pricks his prancing pony.
Yet, gentle reader, do not think that fear
Impelled their heels, to urge their swift career;
They knew not fear, for, even when the air
Smelt strong of powder, they could nobly dare,
Could laugh at balls as they innoxious fell,
And,—when it once had burst,—despise a shell;
Nay one, 't is said, whose birth the auspicious stars
Had kindly cast beneath the sign of Mars,
E'en cracked his whip at an expiring rocket,
(He had, it seems, his pistols in his pocket,)
Nor was he by his bravery incommoded,
For, strange to tell, the rocket ne'er exploded!
In the short moment that they 're thus delayed,
What deathless deeds of daring are displayed!
That little moment!—But new lightnings flash,
And nearer roars the thunder; hark! the lash,
That cracked defiance at all Congreve's powder,
Now o'er the flying courser cracks still louder.
Away they start, and, as each rider feels
War's sulphurous breath already scorch his heels,
(Those heels where plated silver shines so bright,)
His heels with greater vigor urge the flight.
Swift is the steed, they know, that bears their master,
But, though he leads them fast, they follow faster;—
All strive to pass their fellows as they fly,
And, “Devil take the hindmost,” is the cry,
Till far remote from danger they descried
Our Hero seated by his horse's side,
Who, sad as Sancho when he saw the vile end
Of all his hopes, his palace, and his island,
Seemed to apostrophize the distant flame,
And thus be closed, as on their coursers came:
“It is no more! Yet nought beneath the stars
Can stand the shock of Vulcan and of Mars;
Neither the city's pomp, nor rustic bowers,
‘Nor gorgeous palaces, nor cloud-capt towers,’
Nor e'en the pillars of this mighty globe;—
Nor—all the brick and mortar of Latrobe.”
What deathless deeds of daring are displayed!
That little moment!—But new lightnings flash,
And nearer roars the thunder; hark! the lash,
That cracked defiance at all Congreve's powder,
Now o'er the flying courser cracks still louder.
Away they start, and, as each rider feels
War's sulphurous breath already scorch his heels,
(Those heels where plated silver shines so bright,)
His heels with greater vigor urge the flight.
Swift is the steed, they know, that bears their master,
But, though he leads them fast, they follow faster;—
All strive to pass their fellows as they fly,
And, “Devil take the hindmost,” is the cry,
288
Our Hero seated by his horse's side,
Who, sad as Sancho when he saw the vile end
Of all his hopes, his palace, and his island,
Seemed to apostrophize the distant flame,
And thus be closed, as on their coursers came:
“It is no more! Yet nought beneath the stars
Can stand the shock of Vulcan and of Mars;
Neither the city's pomp, nor rustic bowers,
‘Nor gorgeous palaces, nor cloud-capt towers,’
Nor e'en the pillars of this mighty globe;—
Nor—all the brick and mortar of Latrobe.”
Patrons, my tale is told, and shall I hush?
I will, indeed,—to hide the crimson blush
That kindles on my cheek with parching flame,
When doomed to dwell upon these scenes of shame.
Fain would I dash the records from my page,
And veil the present from the future age.—
But no;—what Truth compels the Muse to trace,
No tears can wash away, no art crase.
Fain would I check the tide;—but flow it must.
Who can repress the invincible disgust,
That finds a place in every patriot's breast,
Who knows he is not governed but oppressed;—
Who sees his sacred rights the jest of knaves,
His bleeding sons, the tools of abject slaves!
Who sees, beneath the feet of tyrants trod,
The laws of man, the oracles of God,—
And, where the historic Muse, with diamond pen,
Once wrote the immortal names of godlike men,
Now, catching through the gloom a sickening glimpse,
Sees Infamy, begirt with grinning imps,
Trace on her sooty page with pitchy swab
The damning deeds of Madison and Mob!
I will, indeed,—to hide the crimson blush
That kindles on my cheek with parching flame,
When doomed to dwell upon these scenes of shame.
Fain would I dash the records from my page,
And veil the present from the future age.—
But no;—what Truth compels the Muse to trace,
No tears can wash away, no art crase.
Fain would I check the tide;—but flow it must.
Who can repress the invincible disgust,
That finds a place in every patriot's breast,
Who knows he is not governed but oppressed;—
Who sees his sacred rights the jest of knaves,
His bleeding sons, the tools of abject slaves!
Who sees, beneath the feet of tyrants trod,
The laws of man, the oracles of God,—
And, where the historic Muse, with diamond pen,
Once wrote the immortal names of godlike men,
289
Sees Infamy, begirt with grinning imps,
Trace on her sooty page with pitchy swab
The damning deeds of Madison and Mob!
My New-Year's wish, though warm, is briefly told;—
May the New-Year be happier than the Old;
May scenes of peace succeed to those of blood;
May Commerce spread her white wings o'er the flood;
May good men live, but every tyrant knave,
Who rules to curse his country, find a grave,
Whether by angry Heaven in vengeance made,
Or dug by Brutus with his patriot blade.
May the New-Year be happier than the Old;
May scenes of peace succeed to those of blood;
May Commerce spread her white wings o'er the flood;
May good men live, but every tyrant knave,
Who rules to curse his country, find a grave,
Whether by angry Heaven in vengeance made,
Or dug by Brutus with his patriot blade.
A better wish, in behalf of such a man, would have been, that he might live to see the error of his ways, and a better man in his place. The “patriot blade” of Brutus put one Cæsar out of the way, only to make room for another; and, when there was not virtue enough left in Roome to uphold a Republic, the people gained little by exchanging the ambition of Julius Cæsar for the stern despotism of Augustus.
290
III.
A WORD FROM A PETITIONER.
What! our petitions spurned! The prayer
Of thousands,—tens of thousands,—cast
Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!
But ye will hear us, first or last.
The thousands that, last year, ye scorned,
Are millions now. Be warned! Be warned!
Of thousands,—tens of thousands,—cast
Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!
But ye will hear us, first or last.
The thousands that, last year, ye scorned,
Are millions now. Be warned! Be warned!
Turn not, contemptuous, on your heel;—
It is not for an act of grace
That, suppliants, at your feet we kneel,—
We stand;—we look you in the face,
And say,—and we have weighed the word,—
That our petitions SHALL be heard.
It is not for an act of grace
That, suppliants, at your feet we kneel,—
We stand;—we look you in the face,
And say,—and we have weighed the word,—
That our petitions SHALL be heard.
There are two powers above the laws
Ye make or mar:—they 're our allies.
Beneath their shield we'll urge our cause,
Though all your hands against us rise.
We've proved them, and we know their might;
The Constitution and the Right.
Ye make or mar:—they 're our allies.
Beneath their shield we'll urge our cause,
Though all your hands against us rise.
We've proved them, and we know their might;
The Constitution and the Right.
We say not, ye shall snap the links
That bind you to your dreadful slaves;
Hug, if ye will, a corpse that stinks,
And toil on with it to your graves!
But, that ye may go, coupled thus,
Ye never shall make slaves of us.
That bind you to your dreadful slaves;
291
And toil on with it to your graves!
But, that ye may go, coupled thus,
Ye never shall make slaves of us.
And what, but more than slaves, are they
Who're told they ne'er shall be denied
The right of prayer; yet, when they pray,
Their prayers, unheard, are thrown aside?
Such mockery they will tamely bear,
Who're fit an iron chain to wear.
Who're told they ne'er shall be denied
The right of prayer; yet, when they pray,
Their prayers, unheard, are thrown aside?
Such mockery they will tamely bear,
Who're fit an iron chain to wear.
“The ox, that treadeth out the corn,
Thou shalt not muzzle.”—Thus saith God.
And will ye muzzle the free-born,—
The man,—the owner of the sod,—
Who “gives the grazing ox his meat,”
And you,—his servants here,—your seat?
Thou shalt not muzzle.”—Thus saith God.
And will ye muzzle the free-born,—
The man,—the owner of the sod,—
Who “gives the grazing ox his meat,”
And you,—his servants here,—your seat?
There's a cloud, blackening up the sky!
East, west, and north its curtain spreads;
Lift to its muttering folds your eye!
Beware! for, bursting on your heads,
It hath a force to bear you down;—
'T is an insulted people's frown.
East, west, and north its curtain spreads;
Lift to its muttering folds your eye!
Beware! for, bursting on your heads,
It hath a force to bear you down;—
'T is an insulted people's frown.
Ye may have heard of the Soultan',
And how his Janissaries fell!
Their barracks, near the Atmeidan',
He barred, and fired;—and their death-yell
Went to the stars,—and their blood ran
In brooks across the Atmeidan'.
And how his Janissaries fell!
Their barracks, near the Atmeidan',
He barred, and fired;—and their death-yell
292
In brooks across the Atmeidan'.
The despot spake; and, in one night,
The deed was done. He wields, alone,
The sceptre of the Ottomite,
And brooks no brother near his throne.
Even now, the bow-string, at his beck,
Goes round his mightiest subject's neck;
The deed was done. He wields, alone,
The sceptre of the Ottomite,
And brooks no brother near his throne.
Even now, the bow-string, at his beck,
Goes round his mightiest subject's neck;
Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop,—
I've seen him, in his palace-yard,—
To take petitions from a troop
Of women, who, behind his guard,
Come up, their several suits to press,
To state their wrongs, and ask redress.
I've seen him, in his palace-yard,—
To take petitions from a troop
Of women, who, behind his guard,
Come up, their several suits to press,
To state their wrongs, and ask redress.
And these, into his house of prayer,
I've seen him take; and, as he spreads
His own before his Maker there,
These women's prayers he hears or reads;—
For, while he wears the diadem,
He is instead of God to them.
I've seen him take; and, as he spreads
His own before his Maker there,
These women's prayers he hears or reads;—
For, while he wears the diadem,
He is instead of God to them.
And this he must do. He may grant,
Or may deny; but hear he must.
Were his Seven Towers all adamant,
They'd soon be levelled with the dust,
And “public feeling” make short work,—
Should he not hear them,—with the Turk.
Or may deny; but hear he must.
Were his Seven Towers all adamant,
They'd soon be levelled with the dust,
And “public feeling” make short work,—
Should he not hear them,—with the Turk.
293
Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread
Of cannon-shot, or bursting shell!
These shall not fall upon your head,
As once upon your house they fell.
We have a weapon, firmer set
And better than the bayonet;—
Of cannon-shot, or bursting shell!
These shall not fall upon your head,
As once upon your house they fell.
We have a weapon, firmer set
And better than the bayonet;—
A weapon that comes down as still
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you;—'t is the ballot-box.
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you;—'t is the ballot-box.
Black as your deed shall be the balls
That from that box shall pour like hail!
And, when the storm upon you falls,
How will your craven cheeks turn pale!
For, at its coming though ye laugh,
'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.
That from that box shall pour like hail!
And, when the storm upon you falls,
How will your craven cheeks turn pale!
For, at its coming though ye laugh,
'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.
Not women, now,—the people pray.
Hear us,—or from us ye will hear!
Beware!—a desperate game ye play!
The men that thicken in your rear,—
Kings though ye be,—may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake!—Ye're warned.
Hear us,—or from us ye will hear!
Beware!—a desperate game ye play!
The men that thicken in your rear,—
Kings though ye be,—may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake!—Ye're warned.
1837.
294
IV.
THE TOCSIN.
“If the pulpit be silent, whenever or wherever there may be a sinner, bloody with this guilt, within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to its trust.”
—D. Webster.
Wake! children of the men who said,
“All are born free!”—Their spirits come
Back to the places where they bled
In Freedom's holy martyrdom,
And find you sleeping on their graves
And hugging there your chains,—ye slaves!
“All are born free!”—Their spirits come
Back to the places where they bled
In Freedom's holy martyrdom,
And find you sleeping on their graves
And hugging there your chains,—ye slaves!
Ay,—slaves of slaves! What, sleep ye yet,
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep?
Ay,—dream, while Slavery's foot is set
So firmly on your necks,—while deep
The chain her quivering flesh endures
Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours?
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep?
Ay,—dream, while Slavery's foot is set
So firmly on your necks,—while deep
The chain her quivering flesh endures
Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours?
Hah! say ye that I've falsely spoken,
Calling you slaves?—Then prove ye're not;
Work a free press!—ye'll see it broken;
Stand to defend it!—ye'll be shot. —
O yes! but people should not dare
Print what “the brotherhood” won't bear!
Calling you slaves?—Then prove ye're not;
Work a free press!—ye'll see it broken;
Stand to defend it!—ye'll be shot. —
O yes! but people should not dare
Print what “the brotherhood” won't bear!
295
Then from your lips let words of grace,
Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages,
Fall, while ye're pleading for a race
Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages;—
And pray,—“Lord, let thy kingdom come!”
And see if ye're not stricken dumb.
Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages,
Fall, while ye're pleading for a race
Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages;—
And pray,—“Lord, let thy kingdom come!”
And see if ye're not stricken dumb.
Yes, men of God! ye may not speak,
As, by the Word of God, ye're bidden;
By the pressed lip,—the blanching cheek,
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden;
And, if ye're not cast out, ye fear it;—
And why?—“The brethren” will not hear it.
As, by the Word of God, ye're bidden;
By the pressed lip,—the blanching cheek,
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden;
And, if ye're not cast out, ye fear it;—
And why?—“The brethren” will not hear it.
Since, then, through pulpit, or through press,
To prove your freedom ye 're not able,
Go,—like the Sun of Righteousness,
By wise men honored,—to a stable!
Bend there to Liberty your knee!
Say there that God made all men free!
To prove your freedom ye 're not able,
Go,—like the Sun of Righteousness,
By wise men honored,—to a stable!
296
Say there that God made all men free!
Even there,—ere Freedom's vows ye've plighted,
Ere of her form ye've caught a glimpse,
Even there, are fires infernal lighted,
And ye're driven out by Slavery's imps.
Ah, well!—“so persecuted they
The prophets” of a former day!
Ere of her form ye've caught a glimpse,
Even there, are fires infernal lighted,
And ye're driven out by Slavery's imps.
Ah, well!—“so persecuted they
The prophets” of a former day!
Go, then, and build yourselves a hall,
To prove ye are not slaves, but men!
Write “Freedom,” on its towering wall!
Baptize it in the name of Penn;
And give it to her holy cause,
Beneath the Ægis of her laws;—
To prove ye are not slaves, but men!
Write “Freedom,” on its towering wall!
Baptize it in the name of Penn;
And give it to her holy cause,
Beneath the Ægis of her laws;—
Within let Freedom's anthem swell;—
And, while your hearts begin to throb,
And burn within you—Hark! the yell,—
The torch,—the torrent of the Mob!—
They 're Slavery's troops that round you sweep,
And leave your hall a smouldering heap!
And, while your hearts begin to throb,
And burn within you—Hark! the yell,—
The torch,—the torrent of the Mob!—
297
And leave your hall a smouldering heap!
At Slavery's beck, the prayers ye urge
On your own servants, through the door
Of your own Senate,—that the scourge
May gash your brother's back no more,—
Are trampled underneath their feet,
While ye stand praying in the street!
On your own servants, through the door
Of your own Senate,—that the scourge
May gash your brother's back no more,—
Are trampled underneath their feet,
While ye stand praying in the street!
At Slavery's beck, ye send your sons
To hunt down Indian wives or maids,
Doomed to the lash!—Yes, and their bones,
Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades,
Where no friend goes to give them graves,
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves!
To hunt down Indian wives or maids,
Doomed to the lash!—Yes, and their bones,
Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades,
Where no friend goes to give them graves,
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves!
At Slavery's beck, the very hands
Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye 're free,
Will break a truce, to seize the lands
Of Seminole or Cherokee!
Yes,—tear a flag, that Tartar hordes
Respect, and shield it with their swords!
Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye 're free,
Will break a truce, to seize the lands
Of Seminole or Cherokee!
Yes,—tear a flag, that Tartar hordes
Respect, and shield it with their swords!
298
Vengeance is thine, Almighty God!
To pay it hath thy justice bound thee;
Even now, I see thee take thy rod,—
Thy thunders, leashed and growling round thee;—
Slip them not yet, in mercy!—Deign
Thy wrath yet longer to restrain!—
To pay it hath thy justice bound thee;
Even now, I see thee take thy rod,—
Thy thunders, leashed and growling round thee;—
Slip them not yet, in mercy!—Deign
Thy wrath yet longer to restrain!—
Or,—let thy kingdom, Slavery, come!
Let Church, let State, receive thy chain!
Let pulpit, press, and hall be dumb,
If so “the brotherhood” ordain!
The Muse her own indignant spirit
Will yet speak out;—and men shall hear it.
Let Church, let State, receive thy chain!
Let pulpit, press, and hall be dumb,
If so “the brotherhood” ordain!
The Muse her own indignant spirit
Will yet speak out;—and men shall hear it.
Yes;—while, at Concord, there's a stone
That she can strike her fire from still;
While there's a shaft at Lexington,
Or half a one on Bunker's Hill,
There shall she stand and strike her lyre,
And Truth and Freedom shall stand by her.
That she can strike her fire from still;
While there's a shaft at Lexington,
Or half a one on Bunker's Hill,
There shall she stand and strike her lyre,
And Truth and Freedom shall stand by her.
But, should she thence by mobs be driven,
For purer heights she'll plume her wing;—
Spurning a land of slaves, to heaven
She'll soar, where she can safely sing.
God of our fathers, speed her thither!
God of the free, let me go with her!
For purer heights she'll plume her wing;—
Spurning a land of slaves, to heaven
She'll soar, where she can safely sing.
God of our fathers, speed her thither!
God of the free, let me go with her!
1838.
Bear witness, “Grounds of Complaint preferred against the Rev. John Pierpont, by a Committee of the Parish, called ‘The Proprietors of Hollis-Street Meetinghouse,’ to be submitted to a mutual Ecclesiastical Council, as Reasons for dissolving his Connexion with said Parish,” July 27th, 1840: one of which runs thus;—Because “of his too busy interference with questions of legislation on the subject of prohibiting the sale of ardent spirits;—of his too busy interference with questions of legislation on the subject of imprisonment for debt;—of his too busy interference with the popular controversy on the subject of the abolition of slavery.” And this, in the eighteen hundred and fortieth year of Him whom the Lord God sent “to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound”!
Bear witness, that large “upper room,” the hay-loft over the stable of the Marlborough Hotel, standing upon the ground now covered by the Marlborough Chapel; the only temple in Boston, into which the friends of human liberty, that is, of the liberty of man as man, irrespective of color or caste, could gain admittance for the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, January 25th, 1837. Bear witness, too, that smaller room in Summer Street, where a meeting was held the same day, by members of the same Society; where their only altar was an iron stove,—their only incense, the fumes of a quantity of cayenne pepper, that some one of the “imps” had sprinkled upon the hot stove-plates, to drive the friends of the freedom of all men out of that little asylum.
Bear witness, ye ruins of “Pennsylvania Hall”!—a heap of ruins made by a Philadelphia mob, May 17th, 1838,—and still allowed to remain a heap of ruins, as I was lately told in Philadelphia, from the fear, on the part of the city government, that, should the noble structure be reared again, and dedicated again to Liberty, the fiery tragedy of the 17th of May would be encored.
The Ladies are now exerting themselves to make the shaft on Bunker's Hill a whole one. Success to them!
299
V.
THE GAG.
Ho! children of the granite hills
That bristle with the hackmatack,
And sparkle with the crystal rills
That hurry toward the Merrimack,
Dam up those rills!—for, while they run,
They all rebuke your Atherton.
That bristle with the hackmatack,
And sparkle with the crystal rills
That hurry toward the Merrimack,
Dam up those rills!—for, while they run,
They all rebuke your Atherton.
Dam up those rills!—they flow so free
O'er icy slope, o'er beetling crag,
That soon they'll all be off at sea,
Beyond the reach of Charlie's gag;—
And when those waters are the sea's,
They'll speak and thunder as they please!
O'er icy slope, o'er beetling crag,
That soon they'll all be off at sea,
Beyond the reach of Charlie's gag;—
And when those waters are the sea's,
They'll speak and thunder as they please!
Then freeze them stiff!—but let there come
No winds to chain them;—should they blow,
They'll speak of freedom;—let the dumb
And breathless frost forbid their flow.
Then, all will be so hushed and mum
You'll think your Atherton has come.
No winds to chain them;—should they blow,
They'll speak of freedom;—let the dumb
And breathless frost forbid their flow.
300
You'll think your Atherton has come.
Not he!—“Of all the airts
that blow,”
He dearly loves the soft South-west,
That tells where rice and cotton grow,
And man is, like the Patriarchs, blest
(So say some eloquent divines)
With God-given slaves ; and concubines.
He dearly loves the soft South-west,
That tells where rice and cotton grow,
And man is, like the Patriarchs, blest
(So say some eloquent divines)
With God-given slaves ; and concubines.
Let not the winds go thus at large,
That now o'er all your hills career,—
Your Sunapee and Kearsarge,—
Nay, nay, methinks the bounding deer
That, like the winds, sweep round their hill,
Should all be gagged, to keep them still.
That now o'er all your hills career,—
Your Sunapee and Kearsarge,—
Nay, nay, methinks the bounding deer
That, like the winds, sweep round their hill,
Should all be gagged, to keep them still.
And all your big and little brooks,
That rush down laughing towards the sea,
Your Lampreys, Squams, and Contoocooks,
That show a spirit to be free,
Should learn they 're not to take such airs;—
Your mouths are stopped;—then why not theirs?
That rush down laughing towards the sea,
Your Lampreys, Squams, and Contoocooks,
That show a spirit to be free,
Should learn they 're not to take such airs;—
Your mouths are stopped;—then why not theirs?
Plug every spring that dares to play
At bubble, in its gravel cup,
Or babble, as it runs away!—
Nay,—catch and coop your eagles up!
It is not meet that thy should fly,
And scream of freedom, through your sky.
At bubble, in its gravel cup,
Or babble, as it runs away!—
Nay,—catch and coop your eagles up!
301
And scream of freedom, through your sky.
Ye've not done yet! Your very trees,—
Those sturdy pines, their heads that wag
In concert with the mountain breeze,—
Unless they're silenced by a gag,
Will whisper,—“We will stand our ground!
Our heads are up! Our hearts are sound!”
Those sturdy pines, their heads that wag
In concert with the mountain breeze,—
Unless they're silenced by a gag,
Will whisper,—“We will stand our ground!
Our heads are up! Our hearts are sound!”
Yea, Atherton, the upright firs
O'er thee exult, and taunt thee thus,—
“Though THOU art fallen, no feller stirs
His foot, or lifts his axe at us.
‘Hell from beneath, is moved at thee,’
Since thou hast crouched to Slavery.
O'er thee exult, and taunt thee thus,—
“Though THOU art fallen, no feller stirs
His foot, or lifts his axe at us.
‘Hell from beneath, is moved at thee,’
Since thou hast crouched to Slavery.
“Thou saidst, ‘I will exalt my throne”
Above the stars; and, in the north
Will sit upon the mount alone,
And send my Slavery “Orders” forth’!
Our White Hills spurn thee from their sight;
Their blasts shall speed thee in thy flight.
Above the stars; and, in the north
Will sit upon the mount alone,
And send my Slavery “Orders” forth’!
Our White Hills spurn thee from their sight;
Their blasts shall speed thee in thy flight.
302
“Go! breathe amid the aguish damps
That gather o'er the Congaree;—
Go! hide thee in the cypress swamps
That darken o'er the black Santee,—
And be the moss, above thy head,
The gloomy drapery of thy bed!
That gather o'er the Congaree;—
Go! hide thee in the cypress swamps
That darken o'er the black Santee,—
And be the moss, above thy head,
The gloomy drapery of thy bed!
“The moss, that creeps from bough to bough,
And hangs in many a dull festoon;—
There, peeping through thy curtain, thou
Mayest catch some ‘glimpses of the moon’;
Or, better, twist of it a string,
Noose in thy neck, repent, and—swing!”
And hangs in many a dull festoon;—
There, peeping through thy curtain, thou
Mayest catch some ‘glimpses of the moon’;
Or, better, twist of it a string,
Noose in thy neck, repent, and—swing!”
Sons of the granite hills, your birds
Your winds, your waters, and your trees,
Of faith and freedom speak, in words
That should be felt in times like these;
Their voice comes to you from the sky!
In them, God speaks of Liberty.
Your winds, your waters, and your trees,
Of faith and freedom speak, in words
That should be felt in times like these;
Their voice comes to you from the sky!
In them, God speaks of Liberty.
Sons of the granite hills, awake!
Ye're on a mighty stream afloat,
With all your liberties at stake;—
A faithless pilot's on your boat!
And, while ye've lain asleep, ye're snagged
Nor can ye cry for help,—YE'RE GAGGED!
Ye're on a mighty stream afloat,
With all your liberties at stake;—
A faithless pilot's on your boat!
And, while ye've lain asleep, ye're snagged
Nor can ye cry for help,—YE'RE GAGGED!
1839.
I have no feelings of personal hostility towards the Hon. Charles G. Atherton. But if, by stifling the prayers of more than one million of his fellow men, in order that he may perpetuate the slavery of more than two millions, the best friend I have on earth shall seek to make his name immortal, I will do my best to—help him.
“Yea, the fir trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell, from beneath, is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming.—For thou hast said in thy heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt myself above the stars of God; I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north.”
—Isaiah, xiv. 8, 9, 13.These fir trees that grow upon the granite hills, though they seem to have some heart, can certainly have no bowels, or only granite ones, else they could never give such suicidal counsel.
303
VI.
THE CHAIN.
Is it his daily toil that wrings
From the slave's bosom that deep sigh?
Is it his niggard fare that brings
The tear into his down-cast eye?
From the slave's bosom that deep sigh?
Is it his niggard fare that brings
The tear into his down-cast eye?
O no; by toil and humble fare
Earth's sons their health and vigor gain;
It is because the slave must wear
His chain.
Earth's sons their health and vigor gain;
It is because the slave must wear
His chain.
Is it the sweat from every pore
That starts, and glistens in the sun,
As, the young cotton bending o'er,
His naked back it shines upon?
That starts, and glistens in the sun,
As, the young cotton bending o'er,
His naked back it shines upon?
Is it the drops that, from his breast
Into the thirsty furrow fall,
That scald his soul, deny him rest,
And turn his cup of life to gall?
Into the thirsty furrow fall,
That scald his soul, deny him rest,
And turn his cup of life to gall?
No;—for, that man with sweating brow
Shall eat his bread, doth God ordain;
This the slave's spirit doth not bow;
It is his chain.
Shall eat his bread, doth God ordain;
This the slave's spirit doth not bow;
It is his chain.
304
Is it, that scorching sands and skies
Upon his velvet skin have set
A hue, admired in beauty's eyes,
In Genoa's silks, and polished jet?
Upon his velvet skin have set
A hue, admired in beauty's eyes,
In Genoa's silks, and polished jet?
No; for this color was his pride,
When roaming o'er his native plain;
Even here, his hue can he abide,
But not his chain.
When roaming o'er his native plain;
Even here, his hue can he abide,
But not his chain.
Nor is it, that his back and limbs
Are scored with many a gory gash,
That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims,
And the Man dies beneath the lash.
Are scored with many a gory gash,
That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims,
And the Man dies beneath the lash.
For Baäl's priests, on Carmel's slope,
Themselves with knives and lancets scored,
Till the blood spirted,—in the hope
The god would hear, whom they adored;—
Themselves with knives and lancets scored,
Till the blood spirted,—in the hope
The god would hear, whom they adored;—
And Christian flagellants their backs
All naked to the scourge have given;
And martyrs to their stakes and racks
Have gone, of choice, in hope of heaven;—
All naked to the scourge have given;
And martyrs to their stakes and racks
Have gone, of choice, in hope of heaven;—
For here there was an inward WILL!
Here spake the spirit, upward tending;
And o'er Faith's cloud-girt altar, still,
Hope hung her rainbow, heaven-ward bending.
Here spake the spirit, upward tending;
And o'er Faith's cloud-girt altar, still,
Hope hung her rainbow, heaven-ward bending.
305
But will and hope hath not the slave,
His bleeding spirit to sustain:—
No,—he must drag on, to the grave,
His chain.
His bleeding spirit to sustain:—
No,—he must drag on, to the grave,
His chain.
1839.
VII.
THE FUGITIVE SLAVE'S APOSTROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR.
Star of the North! though night winds drift
The fleecy drapery of the sky
Between thy lamp and me, I lift,
Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye
To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest,
And of a land of freedom tellest.
The fleecy drapery of the sky
Between thy lamp and me, I lift,
Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye
To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest,
And of a land of freedom tellest.
Star of the North! while blazing day
Pours round me its full tide of light,
And hides thy pale but faithful ray,
I, too, lie hid, and long for night:
For night;—I dare not walk at noon,
Nor dare I trust the faithless moon,—
Pours round me its full tide of light,
And hides thy pale but faithful ray,
I, too, lie hid, and long for night:
For night;—I dare not walk at noon,
Nor dare I trust the faithless moon,—
Nor faithless man, whose burning lust
For gold hath riveted my chain;
Nor other leader can I trust,
But thee, of even the starry train;
For, all the host around thee burning,
Like faithless man, keep turning, turning.
For gold hath riveted my chain;
Nor other leader can I trust,
But thee, of even the starry train;
For, all the host around thee burning,
Like faithless man, keep turning, turning.
306
I may not follow where they go:
Star of the North, I look to thee
While on I press; for well I know
Thy light and truth shall set me free;—
Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth;
Thy truth, that all my soul believeth.
Star of the North, I look to thee
While on I press; for well I know
Thy light and truth shall set me free;—
Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth;
Thy truth, that all my soul believeth.
They of the East beheld the star
That over Bethlehem's manger glowed;
With joy they hailed it from afar,
And followed where it marked the road,
Till, where its rays directly fell,
They found the Hope of Israel.
That over Bethlehem's manger glowed;
With joy they hailed it from afar,
And followed where it marked the road,
Till, where its rays directly fell,
They found the Hope of Israel.
Wise were the men who followed thus
The star that sets man free from sin!
Star of the North! thou art to us,—
Who're slaves because we wear a skin
Dark as is night's protecting wing,—
Thou art to us a holy thing.
The star that sets man free from sin!
Star of the North! thou art to us,—
Who're slaves because we wear a skin
Dark as is night's protecting wing,—
Thou art to us a holy thing.
And we are wise to follow thee!
I trust thy steady light alone:
Star of the North! thou seem'st to me
To burn before the Almighty's throne,
To guide me, through these forests dim
And vast, to liberty and Him.
I trust thy steady light alone:
Star of the North! thou seem'st to me
To burn before the Almighty's throne,
To guide me, through these forests dim
And vast, to liberty and Him.
Thy beam is on the glassy breast
Of the still spring, upon whose brink
I lay my weary limbs to rest,
And bow my parching lips to drink.
Guide of the friendless negro's way,
I bless thee for this quiet ray!
Of the still spring, upon whose brink
I lay my weary limbs to rest,
And bow my parching lips to drink.
307
I bless thee for this quiet ray!
In the dark top of southern pines
I nestled, when the driver's horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
My fellows at the break of morn.
And there I lay, till thy sweet face
Looked in upon “my hiding-place.”
I nestled, when the driver's horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
My fellows at the break of morn.
And there I lay, till thy sweet face
Looked in upon “my hiding-place.”
The tangled cane-brake,—where I crept
For shelter from the heat of noon,
And where, while others toiled, I slept
Till wakened by the rising moon,—
As its stalks felt the night wind free,
Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee.
For shelter from the heat of noon,
And where, while others toiled, I slept
Till wakened by the rising moon,—
As its stalks felt the night wind free,
Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee.
Star of the North! in bright array
The constellations round thee sweep,
Each holding on its nightly way,
Rising, or sinking in the deep,
And, as it hangs in mid heaven flaming,
The homage of some nation claiming.
The constellations round thee sweep,
Each holding on its nightly way,
Rising, or sinking in the deep,
And, as it hangs in mid heaven flaming,
The homage of some nation claiming.
This nation to the Eagle
cowers;
Fit ensign! she's a bird of spoil;—
Like worships like! for each devours
The earnings of another's toil.
I've felt her talons and her beak,
And now the gentler Lion seek.
Fit ensign! she's a bird of spoil;—
Like worships like! for each devours
The earnings of another's toil.
308
And now the gentler Lion seek.
The Lion, at the Virgin's feet
Crouches, and lays his mighty paw
Into her lap!—an emblem meet
Of England's Queen and English law:—
Queen, that hath made her Islands free!
Law, that holds out its shield to me!
Crouches, and lays his mighty paw
Into her lap!—an emblem meet
Of England's Queen and English law:—
Queen, that hath made her Islands free!
Law, that holds out its shield to me!
Star of the North! upon that shield
Thou shinest!—O, for ever shine!
The negro, from the cotton-field,
Shall then beneath its orb recline,
And feed the Lion couched before it,
Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it!
Thou shinest!—O, for ever shine!
The negro, from the cotton-field,
Shall then beneath its orb recline,
And feed the Lion couched before it,
Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it!
VIII.
ECONOMY OF SLAVERY.
“One mouth and one back to two hands,” is the lawThat the hand of his Maker has stamped upon man;
But Slavery lays on God's image her paw,
And fixes him out on a different plan;—
Two mouths and two backs to two hands she creates;
And the consequence is, as she might have expected;
Let the hands do their best, upon all her estates,
The mouths go half fed, and the backs half protected.
1840.
309
IX. GLEANINGS.
I.
TO A FRIEND.
Friend of my dark and solitary hour,
When spectres walk abroad, and ghosts have power,
To thee I look to dissipate the gloom,
And banish sheeted corpses from my room.
Thou'rt not thyself a corpse, though, past all doubt,
Thou hast been a dead body, and “laid out.”
Nor art thou quite a ghost, though, sooth to say,
Much like a ghost thou vanishest away,
And, like the ghost in Shakspeare's tragic tale,
(That of the royal Dane,) thou 'rt “very pale.”
When spectres walk abroad, and ghosts have power,
To thee I look to dissipate the gloom,
And banish sheeted corpses from my room.
Thou'rt not thyself a corpse, though, past all doubt,
Thou hast been a dead body, and “laid out.”
Nor art thou quite a ghost, though, sooth to say,
Much like a ghost thou vanishest away,
And, like the ghost in Shakspeare's tragic tale,
(That of the royal Dane,) thou 'rt “very pale.”
Life of my nights, thy cheering smile impart!
Light of my lone and melancholy heart,
Come stand beside me, and, with silent gaze,
O'erlook the line I'm weaving in thy praise.
But, should my numbers, like thyself, decline,
Start not indignant from thy silver shrine,
Such panegyric though incensed to hear,
Nor, like the Cynthian, touch my tingling ear.
Yea,—though I feel thy warm breath in my face,
As Daphne felt the Delphian's in the chase,
Let not my finger press thy polished form,
Lest, like Pygmalion, I should find thee warm.
Light of my lone and melancholy heart,
Come stand beside me, and, with silent gaze,
O'erlook the line I'm weaving in thy praise.
But, should my numbers, like thyself, decline,
Start not indignant from thy silver shrine,
Such panegyric though incensed to hear,
Nor, like the Cynthian, touch my tingling ear.
312
As Daphne felt the Delphian's in the chase,
Let not my finger press thy polished form,
Lest, like Pygmalion, I should find thee warm.
Thou art not cold as marble, though thou 'rt fair
As smoothest alabaster statues are;
Thou 'rt like the lamp that brightens wisdom's page;
Thou 'rt like a glass to the dim eye of age;
Thou 'rt like the lantern Hero held, of yore,
On Sestos's tower, to light Leander o'er.
Thou art the friend of Beauty and of Wit;
Both beam the brighter when with thee they sit.
Thou giv'st to Beauty's cheek a softer hue,
Sprinklest on Beauty's lip a fresher dew,
Giv'st her with warmer eloquence to sigh,
And wing love's shafts more heated from her eye.
As smoothest alabaster statues are;
Thou 'rt like the lamp that brightens wisdom's page;
Thou 'rt like a glass to the dim eye of age;
Thou 'rt like the lantern Hero held, of yore,
On Sestos's tower, to light Leander o'er.
Thou art the friend of Beauty and of Wit;
Both beam the brighter when with thee they sit.
Thou giv'st to Beauty's cheek a softer hue,
Sprinklest on Beauty's lip a fresher dew,
Giv'st her with warmer eloquence to sigh,
And wing love's shafts more heated from her eye.
Still, pure thyself, as Nova Zembla's snows,
Thy blood bounds not,—it regularly flows.
Thou dost not feel, nor wake, impure desire;—
For, though thou standest with thy soul on fire,
Beside my couch, in all thy glowing charms,
I sleep, nor dream I clasp thee in my arms.
Thy blood bounds not,—it regularly flows.
Thou dost not feel, nor wake, impure desire;—
For, though thou standest with thy soul on fire,
Beside my couch, in all thy glowing charms,
I sleep, nor dream I clasp thee in my arms.
Thy faithfulness, my friend, oft hast thou shown;
Thou hast stood by me oft,—and stood alone;
And when the world has frowned, thou wouldst beguile
My hours of sadness with thy cheerful smile.
Yet well I know,—forgive the painful thought!—
With all thy faithfulness, thou hast been bought.
Yes, friend, thou hast been venal, and hast known
The time, when, just as freely as my own
Thou mightest, for a trifle, have been led
To grace the veriest stranger's board or bed.
Yet will I trust thee now,—while thou hast life;—
I'll trust thee with my money, or my wife,
Not doubting, for a moment, that thou 'lt be
As true to them as thou art true to me.
Thou hast stood by me oft,—and stood alone;
And when the world has frowned, thou wouldst beguile
My hours of sadness with thy cheerful smile.
313
With all thy faithfulness, thou hast been bought.
Yes, friend, thou hast been venal, and hast known
The time, when, just as freely as my own
Thou mightest, for a trifle, have been led
To grace the veriest stranger's board or bed.
Yet will I trust thee now,—while thou hast life;—
I'll trust thee with my money, or my wife,
Not doubting, for a moment, that thou 'lt be
As true to them as thou art true to me.
While thus I praise thee, I do not pretend
That though a faithful, thou 'rt a faultless friend.
Excuse me, then,—I do not love to blame,—
When, for thy sake, thy faults I briefly name.
That though a faithful, thou 'rt a faultless friend.
Excuse me, then,—I do not love to blame,—
When, for thy sake, thy faults I briefly name.
Though often present when debates wax warm,
On Slavery, or the Temperance reform,
I ne'er have known thee lift thy voice or hand,
The car of Reformation through the land
Onward to roll.—Thou knowest well that I
Drink nothing but cold water, when I'm dry;—
It is my daily bath, my daily drink;—
What, then, with all thy virtues, must I think,
When, as thou seest my goblet filling up,
Or the pure crystal flowing from the cup,
In cool refreshment, o'er my parching lip,
I never can persuade thee e'en to sip?—
Nay,—when thou bear'st it with so ill a grace,
If but a drop I sprinkle in thy face?
On Slavery, or the Temperance reform,
I ne'er have known thee lift thy voice or hand,
The car of Reformation through the land
Onward to roll.—Thou knowest well that I
Drink nothing but cold water, when I'm dry;—
It is my daily bath, my daily drink;—
What, then, with all thy virtues, must I think,
When, as thou seest my goblet filling up,
Or the pure crystal flowing from the cup,
In cool refreshment, o'er my parching lip,
I never can persuade thee e'en to sip?—
Nay,—when thou bear'st it with so ill a grace,
If but a drop I sprinkle in thy face?
314
Thou know'st this puts thee out. And then, once more,
Tobacco juice, on carpet, hearth, or floor,
I can't endure; and yet I know thou viewest
Such things unmoved. I say not that thou chewest
The Indian weed; but I'm in error far,
If I've not seen thee lighting a cigar;—
Fie! Fie! my friend, eschew the nauseous stuff!
I hate thy smoking! I detest thy snuff!
Tobacco juice, on carpet, hearth, or floor,
I can't endure; and yet I know thou viewest
Such things unmoved. I say not that thou chewest
The Indian weed; but I'm in error far,
If I've not seen thee lighting a cigar;—
Fie! Fie! my friend, eschew the nauseous stuff!
I hate thy smoking! I detest thy snuff!
True, should my censures a retort provoke,
Thou mayst reply that Spanish ladies smoke;
And that e'en editors are pleased enough
Sometimes to take, as oft they give, a puff.
Thou mayst reply that Spanish ladies smoke;
And that e'en editors are pleased enough
Sometimes to take, as oft they give, a puff.
Ah well, “with all thy faults,”—as Cowper says,—
“I love thee still,” and still I sing thy praise:
These few bad habits I o'erlook in thee;—
For who, on earth, from every fault is free?
“I love thee still,” and still I sing thy praise:
These few bad habits I o'erlook in thee;—
For who, on earth, from every fault is free?
Still, my fair friend, the poisonous gall that drips
On virtue's robe, from Scandal's viper lips,
Hath fallen on thee. When innocence and youth
Her victims are, she seems to tell the truth,
While yet she lies. But when, with deadly fangs,
She strikes at thee, and on thy mantel hangs,
She seems resolved a different game to try;
She tells the truth, but seems to tell a lie,
And calls thee,—thy tried character to stain,—
“The wicked fiction of some monster's brain!”
“Wicked!”—let all such slanderers be told
Thy maker cast thee in an upright mould;
And, though thou mayst be swayed, 't is ne'er to ill,
But thou maintainest thine uprightness still.
“Wicked”—while all thine hours, as they proceed,
See thee engaged in some illustrious deed!
See thee, thyself and all thou hast, to spend,
Like holy Paul, to benefit thy friend;
And, by the couch where wakeful woe appears,
See thee dissolve, like Niobe, in tears!
On virtue's robe, from Scandal's viper lips,
Hath fallen on thee. When innocence and youth
Her victims are, she seems to tell the truth,
While yet she lies. But when, with deadly fangs,
She strikes at thee, and on thy mantel hangs,
She seems resolved a different game to try;
She tells the truth, but seems to tell a lie,
And calls thee,—thy tried character to stain,—
“The wicked fiction of some monster's brain!”
315
Thy maker cast thee in an upright mould;
And, though thou mayst be swayed, 't is ne'er to ill,
But thou maintainest thine uprightness still.
“Wicked”—while all thine hours, as they proceed,
See thee engaged in some illustrious deed!
See thee, thyself and all thou hast, to spend,
Like holy Paul, to benefit thy friend;
And, by the couch where wakeful woe appears,
See thee dissolve, like Niobe, in tears!
E'en now, as, gazing on thy slender frame,
That, like my own, still feeds the vital flame,
I strive to catch thy beauty's modest ray,
Methinks I see thee sink, in slow decay,
Beneath the flame that's kindled by my breath,
And preys upon thy heart-strings till thy death.
Yet, in thy melting mood, thy heart is light,
Thy smile is cheerful, and thy visage bright.
And, in thy pallid form, I see displayed
The Cyprian goddess and the martial maid;
For thou didst spring, like Venus, from the main,
And, like Minerva, from a thunderer's brain.
That, like my own, still feeds the vital flame,
I strive to catch thy beauty's modest ray,
Methinks I see thee sink, in slow decay,
Beneath the flame that's kindled by my breath,
And preys upon thy heart-strings till thy death.
Yet, in thy melting mood, thy heart is light,
Thy smile is cheerful, and thy visage bright.
And, in thy pallid form, I see displayed
The Cyprian goddess and the martial maid;
For thou didst spring, like Venus, from the main,
And, like Minerva, from a thunderer's brain.
What though thou art a “fiction”? Still, forsooth,
Fiction may throw as fair a light as truth.
But, thou'rt a “wicked fiction”; yet, the while,
No crime is thine, and thou 'rt unknown to guile.
In fiery trials, I have seen thee stand
Firm, and more pure than e'en thy maker's hand;
And deeds of darkness, crimsoned o'er with shame,
Shrink from thine eye as from devouring flame.
Fiction may throw as fair a light as truth.
But, thou'rt a “wicked fiction”; yet, the while,
No crime is thine, and thou 'rt unknown to guile.
316
Firm, and more pure than e'en thy maker's hand;
And deeds of darkness, crimsoned o'er with shame,
Shrink from thine eye as from devouring flame.
True at thy post, I've ever seen thee stay,
Yet, truant-like, I 've seen thee run away;
And, though that want of firmness I deplore,
Wert thou less wicked thou wouldst run still more;
Wert thou more wicked, and less modest too,
The meed of greater virtue were thy due.
Wert thou less wicked, thou wouldst less dispense
The beams of beauty and benevolence.
Light of my gloomy hours, thy name I bless
The more, the greater is thy wickedness.
Yet, truant-like, I 've seen thee run away;
And, though that want of firmness I deplore,
Wert thou less wicked thou wouldst run still more;
Wert thou more wicked, and less modest too,
The meed of greater virtue were thy due.
Wert thou less wicked, thou wouldst less dispense
The beams of beauty and benevolence.
Light of my gloomy hours, thy name I bless
The more, the greater is thy wickedness.
317
II.
PETITION FROM A LAZARETTO.
[_]
Lines written in the Lazaretto at Malta, in May, 1836, in the name of the Subscriber,—a Captain in His Britannic Majesty's service, who had been stationed at Corfu,—and sent by him to Sir Frederick Hankey, in behalf of the party described, and for the object stated in the lines themselves.
Sir,
From the Lazaretto's lofty cells,Where Freedom comes not, but where Hunger dwells,
Where floors, walls, ceilings,—all of Malta stone,—
Have long replied to many a prisoner's moan;
Where, while we wake, we 're stung by many a gnat,
And, while we sleep, are robbed by many a rat,—
Your servant, who, you know, is not a stoic
(Though here one ought to be), begs your permission,
In a few lines, and somewhat less heroic
Than are these first, to send you his petition;—
Which humbly showeth;—
Here are four
As hearty men as walked the planet,
Who're running up a frightful score,
('T is now five days since we began it,)
For baked, stewed, roasted, with McAlif;
318
But eating beef and drinking beer,—
We speak not now of eau de vie,
And rum, and lemon ratafia, —
We really begin to fear
That we shall all be after meeting,
On our way homeward, a “bum-bailiff,”
With his tipped staff, and civil “greeting.”
Now, should our commissary set a
Bull-dog like this upon our track,
Who, on our entering Valetta,
Should seize, and hold, or drag us back;
Or, on such “livery of seisin,”
Should take us to a debtor's prison,
Our case were obviously still harder;
For there McAlif keeps no larder;—
And, what is worse, when once in there,
We fear, the whole corps sanitaire
Might deem it somewhat too erratic,
Even in ten days to give us pratique.
Fear ye the plague from such as we?
Consider, pray, from whence we've come;—
Some from Corfù, from Patras some,
And all have crossed the Ionian sea.
Some have been rambling, e'er so long,
Among the hills so famed in song,
('T is there we must have caught the power
To string our lyre thus, and to sound it.)
On Helicon we met a shower,
With a young Iris dancing round it.
Upon Cythæron's shady side
We saw Hygeia coolly seated;
Who, learning that we'd come in honest quest of her,
(Not like Actæon, for a glimpse by stealth,)
Most promptly gave us a clean bill of health,
And to our question courteously replied,
And her assurance o'er and o'er repeated,
That we should find no plague, now, to the West of her;
“Except,”—she added in an under tone,—
“It be the plague at Malta or Ancone,”
By which we understood the nymph to mean
The plague of there performing quarantine.
Consider, pray, from whence we've come;—
Some from Corfù, from Patras some,
And all have crossed the Ionian sea.
Some have been rambling, e'er so long,
Among the hills so famed in song,
319
To string our lyre thus, and to sound it.)
On Helicon we met a shower,
With a young Iris dancing round it.
Upon Cythæron's shady side
We saw Hygeia coolly seated;
Who, learning that we'd come in honest quest of her,
(Not like Actæon, for a glimpse by stealth,)
Most promptly gave us a clean bill of health,
And to our question courteously replied,
And her assurance o'er and o'er repeated,
That we should find no plague, now, to the West of her;
“Except,”—she added in an under tone,—
“It be the plague at Malta or Ancone,”
By which we understood the nymph to mean
The plague of there performing quarantine.
Since that, we've felt the breezes pass us
Fresh from the white head of Parnassus,
And, later still, the Adriatic
Has breathed upon us;—and his breath,
If it e'er bears the darts of Death,
Brings them in colds and pains rheumatic;
Or down the gulf a demon sails,
With white lips and blue finger-nails,
By mortals sometimes called an ague;—
These imps Adria sends to plague you;—
But, as to any other kind of pest,
Were't not a lazar-house, it were a jest.
Fear ye the plaque from such as we?
O, send the leech, and let him see.
We think, if any thing can banish
The fear of pest from us, poor sinners,
'T would be, when we are at our dinners,
To see how soon those dinners vanish.
Send, then, the leech,—let him examine;
We think, when he shall make report,
'Twill be agreed “by the whole court,”—
No fear of plague, but fear of famine.
Fresh from the white head of Parnassus,
And, later still, the Adriatic
Has breathed upon us;—and his breath,
If it e'er bears the darts of Death,
Brings them in colds and pains rheumatic;
Or down the gulf a demon sails,
With white lips and blue finger-nails,
By mortals sometimes called an ague;—
These imps Adria sends to plague you;—
But, as to any other kind of pest,
Were't not a lazar-house, it were a jest.
320
O, send the leech, and let him see.
We think, if any thing can banish
The fear of pest from us, poor sinners,
'T would be, when we are at our dinners,
To see how soon those dinners vanish.
Send, then, the leech,—let him examine;
We think, when he shall make report,
'Twill be agreed “by the whole court,”—
No fear of plague, but fear of famine.
O, had we but a tongue to plead our cause!
We had one once,—it is not what it was,—
There was a time when that delicious tongue,
Sweeter than Nestor's, with its fellows hung,
And in the smoke of Adrianople swung.
In Smyrna next it met our roving eye,
And the bait took;—what could we do but buy?
O, it was sweeter than “the summer south,”
Nor could we see it but with watering mouth;
In papers firm we had the purchase rolled,
And then we paid for't in the Sultan's gold.
Pleased, we looked forward to the Lazaret,
Where, if McAlif could not meet our wishes,
We knew that there was one thing we could get,
And then one thing the very prince of dishes!
We had one once,—it is not what it was,—
There was a time when that delicious tongue,
Sweeter than Nestor's, with its fellows hung,
And in the smoke of Adrianople swung.
In Smyrna next it met our roving eye,
And the bait took;—what could we do but buy?
O, it was sweeter than “the summer south,”
Nor could we see it but with watering mouth;
In papers firm we had the purchase rolled,
And then we paid for't in the Sultan's gold.
Pleased, we looked forward to the Lazaret,
Where, if McAlif could not meet our wishes,
We knew that there was one thing we could get,
And then one thing the very prince of dishes!
This morning, as a miser to his hoard
Goes, to be sure that every thing is right,
We sought the basket where our tongue was stored,
And where we left it, safely wrapped, last night.—
The truth flashed forth;—we can no longer mask it;—
Some foe,—and doubtless thereby hangs a tail,—
Had, “while men slept,” crept softly to the basket,
(How, when we all looked in, we all looked pale!)
And left no more of all our cherished treasure,
Than what consisted with the pirate's pleasure!
We had a tongue, which is not all a tongue;
Ah, little thought we, it so soon would fail us!
But yesterday, it might have stood among
The dishes dressed for Heliogabalus;
Now, none so hungry as that tongue to set to,
Of all the starvelings of a Lazaretto.
We, then, your servant, do implore,
Not for ourself, but all the four
Who help this Lazaretto farce on;—
Yes,—'t is the four we're pleading for,
To wit, three English men of war
And one poor vagrant Yankee parson;—
We say, we do beseech your grace,
Sir Frederick, in behalf of these,
Let us all quit this hungry place,
And get our dinner when and where we please.
Your deed shall live; in verse and prose we'll tell it!
And, as in duty bound, we'll ever thank ye;
Your humble servant,
Robert Napier Kellett.
The Honorable Secretary Hankey.
Goes, to be sure that every thing is right,
We sought the basket where our tongue was stored,
And where we left it, safely wrapped, last night.—
321
Some foe,—and doubtless thereby hangs a tail,—
Had, “while men slept,” crept softly to the basket,
(How, when we all looked in, we all looked pale!)
And left no more of all our cherished treasure,
Than what consisted with the pirate's pleasure!
We had a tongue, which is not all a tongue;
Ah, little thought we, it so soon would fail us!
But yesterday, it might have stood among
The dishes dressed for Heliogabalus;
Now, none so hungry as that tongue to set to,
Of all the starvelings of a Lazaretto.
We, then, your servant, do implore,
Not for ourself, but all the four
Who help this Lazaretto farce on;—
Yes,—'t is the four we're pleading for,
To wit, three English men of war
And one poor vagrant Yankee parson;—
We say, we do beseech your grace,
Sir Frederick, in behalf of these,
Let us all quit this hungry place,
And get our dinner when and where we please.
Your deed shall live; in verse and prose we'll tell it!
And, as in duty bound, we'll ever thank ye;
Your humble servant,
Robert Napier Kellett.
The Honorable Secretary Hankey.
The author owes it to himself, not to say one or two others of the party, to declare that these three lines had reference to only one of the party, who in the armies of “the jolly god” was a veteran, that had seen hard service.
322
III.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS E. L. B—.
Is there, in all the skies, a star
That envies not the Queen of Heaven,
As nightly, on her silver car,
Through their retiring ranks she's driven?
That envies not the Queen of Heaven,
As nightly, on her silver car,
Through their retiring ranks she's driven?
There is:—for, though a countless train,
That sparkled ere she rose to view,
Grow pale with envy when the plain
Is sprinkled with her light and dew,
That sparkled ere she rose to view,
Grow pale with envy when the plain
Is sprinkled with her light and dew,
One stands unmoved, and sees her roll,
Nor will retire, nor yet attend her;
'T is she whose lamp illumes the pole
With modest but eternal splendor.
Nor will retire, nor yet attend her;
'T is she whose lamp illumes the pole
With modest but eternal splendor.
Springs there a plant or flower to light,
Whose bosom, all unknown to guile,
Is bathed in the pure tears of Night,
And dried in Morning's cheerful smile,—
Whose bosom, all unknown to guile,
Is bathed in the pure tears of Night,
And dried in Morning's cheerful smile,—
Whether that plant or blossom throws
Its fragrance over hill or dale,—
That envies not to see the Rose
Unfold her leaves and woo the gale,
Its fragrance over hill or dale,—
That envies not to see the Rose
Unfold her leaves and woo the gale,
323
When on her green and graceful stem
She hangs, her native bush adorning,
Sparkling with many a dewy gem,
And blushing with the beams of morning?
She hangs, her native bush adorning,
Sparkling with many a dewy gem,
And blushing with the beams of morning?
Yes, there is one, and one alone;—
Mimosa, pride of vegetation,
Boasts higher honors of her own;
Hers is the honor of sensation.
Mimosa, pride of vegetation,
Boasts higher honors of her own;
Hers is the honor of sensation.
And is there one whose peace the glare
Of others' beauty never mars?
One of the blooming, sparkling fair,
Whose emblems are the flowers and stars?
Of others' beauty never mars?
One of the blooming, sparkling fair,
Whose emblems are the flowers and stars?
Yes:—there is one; 't is she who shrinks
From even admiration's gaze,
Who courts the shade, who feels, who thinks,
And spreads her hands to heaven in praise;
From even admiration's gaze,
Who courts the shade, who feels, who thinks,
And spreads her hands to heaven in praise;
'T is she whose spirit dwells on high,
Even in the thoughtful nights of youth;
'T is she whose mild and constant eye
Beams with the faithful light of truth.
Even in the thoughtful nights of youth;
'T is she whose mild and constant eye
Beams with the faithful light of truth.
Heaven's brilliant lights, Earth's blooming flowers,—
These shall all fade, and those shall fall:—
The moral beauty that is ours
Shall flourish o'er the tomb of all.
These shall all fade, and those shall fall:—
The moral beauty that is ours
Shall flourish o'er the tomb of all.
1824.
324
IV.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS CAROLINE C---.
“Grace is deceitful, and beauty vain.”
—Solomon.
—Solomon.
O, say not, wisest of all the kings
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
Your harem beauties resign! resign
Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song!
To your garden come forth, among things divine,
And own you do grace and beauty wrong.
Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song!
To your garden come forth, among things divine,
And own you do grace and beauty wrong.
Is beauty vain because it will fade?
Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain;
For this shall be lost in evening's shade,
And that in winter's sleety rain.
Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain;
For this shall be lost in evening's shade,
And that in winter's sleety rain.
But earth's green mantle, pranked with flowers,
Is the couch where life with joy reposes;
And heaven gives down, with its light and showers,
To regale them, fruits,—to deck them, roses.
Is the couch where life with joy reposes;
And heaven gives down, with its light and showers,
To regale them, fruits,—to deck them, roses.
And, while opening flowers in such beauty spread,
And ripening fruits so gracefully swing,
Say not, O King, as you just now said,
That beauty or grace is a worthless thing.
And ripening fruits so gracefully swing,
Say not, O King, as you just now said,
That beauty or grace is a worthless thing.
325
This willow's limbs, as they bend in the breeze,
The dimpled face of the pool to kiss,—
Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees
That there is beauty and grace in this!
The dimpled face of the pool to kiss,—
Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees
That there is beauty and grace in this!
And do not these boughs all whisper of Him,
Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them;
Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim,
And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways them?
Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them;
Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim,
And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways them?
And are not the beauty and grace of youth,
Like those of this willow, the work of love?
Do they not come, like the voice of truth,
That is heard all around us here, from above?
Like those of this willow, the work of love?
Do they not come, like the voice of truth,
That is heard all around us here, from above?
Then say not, wisest of all the kings
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
1827.
V.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS OCTAVIA W---.
Octavia! what the eighth!—If bounteous HeavenHath made eight such, where are the other seven?
1835.
326
VI.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS MARY G. M—.
Mary, never on these pages
Let there be a single line,
Be it beau's, or bard's, or sage's,
That shall aught unholy speak,
Or blot the paper's virgin cheek,
Or bring a blush o'er thine.
Let there be a single line,
Be it beau's, or bard's, or sage's,
That shall aught unholy speak,
Or blot the paper's virgin cheek,
Or bring a blush o'er thine.
Let no hand,—or friend's or lover's,—
Ever, from wit's sparkling mine
Call, and leave between these covers,
Any gem, however bright,
That in jealous Virtue's sight
Shall be unfit for thine.
Ever, from wit's sparkling mine
Call, and leave between these covers,
Any gem, however bright,
That in jealous Virtue's sight
Shall be unfit for thine.
With the pearls from shallow waters,
Such as brainless flatterers twine
Round the brow of Folly's daughters,
Let the pedlers of those pearls
Grace the albums of their girls,
But never trick out thine.
Such as brainless flatterers twine
Round the brow of Folly's daughters,
Let the pedlers of those pearls
Grace the albums of their girls,
But never trick out thine.
Gems of truth and genius, rather,
That, from heights or depths divine,
Wisdom's sons and daughters gather,—
Gems of thought and holy feeling,
To thyself revealing,—
Shall fill this book of thine.
That, from heights or depths divine,
Wisdom's sons and daughters gather,—
Gems of thought and holy feeling,
To thyself revealing,—
Shall fill this book of thine.
327
Flowers, by kindred spirits painted,
Taste shall here so intertwine,
That thy brother's spirit sainted,—
Could the finished volume lie
Open to his watchful eye,—
Would give it back to thine.
Taste shall here so intertwine,
That thy brother's spirit sainted,—
Could the finished volume lie
Open to his watchful eye,—
Would give it back to thine.
Mary, now thy cheek is blowing;
But its bloom wilt thou resign,
With the locks that now are flowing
Down the shoulders of thy youth;
But thy purity and truth
O keep for ever!—Thine,
But its bloom wilt thou resign,
With the locks that now are flowing
Down the shoulders of thy youth;
But thy purity and truth
O keep for ever!—Thine,
1840.
J. P.
VII.
SUNDAY MORNING AT CAMBRIDGE.
It had rained in the night; but the morning's birth
Was as calm and still as even;
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth,
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth,
And the mists had gone to heaven.
The winds were asleep; so soft was the weather,
Since the storm had spent its might,
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather,
Or whispered a word for hours together,
Or breathed a “Farewell!” to night.
Was as calm and still as even;
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth,
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth,
And the mists had gone to heaven.
The winds were asleep; so soft was the weather,
Since the storm had spent its might,
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather,
Or whispered a word for hours together,
Or breathed a “Farewell!” to night.
328
The fields were green,
And the world was clean;
The young smokes curled in air,
And the clear-toned bell
Swung merrily to tell
The students' hour of prayer.
The elm's yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed,
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride
Down the church's spire and the chapel's side.
And the world was clean;
The young smokes curled in air,
And the clear-toned bell
Swung merrily to tell
The students' hour of prayer.
The elm's yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed,
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride
Down the church's spire and the chapel's side.
As learning's pale and dark-robed throng
Moved on to morning's prayer and song,
One of the train, who walked alone,
One, to the rest but little known,
Whose way of worship was his own,
Moved tardily, till by degrees
He stopped among the glittering trees
While the rest in the chapel assembled.
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there,
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair,
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun's flash came
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame;
Yet its glorious locks never trembled.
Not Horeb's bush, to Moses' eye,
Wa fuller of the deity.
The worshipper gazed:—'t was a glorious sight!
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light,
He was bowing his heart adoringly.
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned,
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned,
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned,
And lifted to heaven imploringly.
Moved on to morning's prayer and song,
One of the train, who walked alone,
One, to the rest but little known,
Whose way of worship was his own,
Moved tardily, till by degrees
He stopped among the glittering trees
While the rest in the chapel assembled.
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there,
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair,
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun's flash came
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame;
Yet its glorious locks never trembled.
Not Horeb's bush, to Moses' eye,
Wa fuller of the deity.
The worshipper gazed:—'t was a glorious sight!
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light,
He was bowing his heart adoringly.
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned,
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned,
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned,
And lifted to heaven imploringly.
Oct. 2d, 1818.
329
VIII.
MORNING PRAYER FOR A CHILD.
O God! I thank thee, that the night
In peace and rest hath passed away,
And that I see in this fair light
My Father's smile, that makes it day.
In peace and rest hath passed away,
And that I see in this fair light
My Father's smile, that makes it day.
Be thou my guide, and let me live
As under thine all-seeing eye;
Supply my wants, my sins forgive,
And make me happy when I die.
As under thine all-seeing eye;
Supply my wants, my sins forgive,
And make me happy when I die.
IX.
EVENING PRAYER FOR A CHILD.
Another day its course hath run,
And still, O God, thy child is blessed;
For thou hast been by day my sun,
And thou wilt be by night my rest.
And still, O God, thy child is blessed;
For thou hast been by day my sun,
And thou wilt be by night my rest.
Sweet sleep descends, my eyes to close;
And now, while all the world is still,
I give my body to repose,
My spirit to my Father's will.
And now, while all the world is still,
I give my body to repose,
My spirit to my Father's will.
330
X.
JERUSALEM.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen!—
Could I have gazed upon the dome,
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening's sun went down,
Thy parting camels' bells:—
How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen!—
Could I have gazed upon the dome,
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening's sun went down,
Thy parting camels' bells:—
Could I have stood on Olivet,
Where once the Saviour trod,
And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God!
For is it not, Almighty God,
Thy holy city still,—
Though there thy prophets walk no more,—
That crowns Moriah's hill?
Where once the Saviour trod,
And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God!
For is it not, Almighty God,
Thy holy city still,—
Though there thy prophets walk no more,—
That crowns Moriah's hill?
Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion's saddened brow;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That killed them, came and wept.
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion's saddened brow;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
331
That killed them, came and wept.
But still the seed of Abraham
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,
That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,
And Israel's God is worshipped yet
Where Zion lifts her head.
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,
That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,
And Israel's God is worshipped yet
Where Zion lifts her head.
Yes;—every morning, as the day
Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes
From every minaret;
At every eve the mellow call
Floats on the quiet air,
“Lo, God is God! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!”
Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes
From every minaret;
At every eve the mellow call
Floats on the quiet air,
“Lo, God is God! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!”
I know, when at that solemn call
The city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;
But Abraham's God is worshipped there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped,—hopeth charity,—
“In spirit and in truth.”
The city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;
But Abraham's God is worshipped there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped,—hopeth charity,—
“In spirit and in truth.”
Yea, from that day when Salem knelt
And bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her Priest
And King,—Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men
Have bowed before the Lord.
And bent her queenly neck
332
And King,—Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men
Have bowed before the Lord.
Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.
I would have mused, while Night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the sithe of Time.
Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the sithe of Time.
The Garden of Gethsemanè
Those aged olive trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.
Those aged olive trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
333
And bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till Night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learned to bear my own.
And, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till Night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learned to bear my own.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid,
The Crescent is thy cross!
Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid,
The Crescent is thy cross!
It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!
But round thy hill the spirits throng
Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,—
To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!
But round thy hill the spirits throng
Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,—
334
Went up that day, when darkness fell
From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched
Thy feet, gave up their dead:—
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,
His blood is on thy head!
From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched
Thy feet, gave up their dead:—
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,
His blood is on thy head!
1840.
This name, now generally written Ibrahim, is the same as that of “the father of the faithful,” the contemporary of Melchisedek.
THE END.
| Airs of Palestine, and other poems | |