 | Household Verses |  |
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TO A PROFESSIONAL FRIEND,
ON HIS RETIREMENT FROM ACTIVE LIFE.
When from the fields of Palestine
The chieftain sought his home once more,
For him the harper of his line
Poured forth his tributary store;
And as, 'mid wine-cups flowing o'er
He feasted in his castle-hall,
Though rude the strain, its simple lore
Perchance might hold his heart in thrall.
The chieftain sought his home once more,
For him the harper of his line
Poured forth his tributary store;
And as, 'mid wine-cups flowing o'er
He feasted in his castle-hall,
Though rude the strain, its simple lore
Perchance might hold his heart in thrall.
For, even in that iron age,
Unless old bards have told us wrong,
To warrior, knight, or statesman sage,
Dear was the minstrel's harp and song;
And though unto the martial throng
Dearest amid the battle's strife,
Yet even such, at times, might long
To hear a strain of calmer life.
Unless old bards have told us wrong,
To warrior, knight, or statesman sage,
Dear was the minstrel's harp and song;
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Dearest amid the battle's strife,
Yet even such, at times, might long
To hear a strain of calmer life.
And doubtless many a feudal lord,
Once proud to stem the battle's tide,
Returning to his festal board,
Lance, shield, and helmet laid aside,
Hath felt the joys by home supplied—
After long years of service done,
Sweeter than all the pomp and pride
Upon the fields of battle won!
Once proud to stem the battle's tide,
Returning to his festal board,
Lance, shield, and helmet laid aside,
Hath felt the joys by home supplied—
After long years of service done,
Sweeter than all the pomp and pride
Upon the fields of battle won!
Then how much more may he—who now
Retires from life's more active scene,
Ere time writes wrinkles on his brow,
Survey that hour with thankful mien:
And looking round with joy serene
On blessings won by toilsome years,
With heart, and hands, and conscience clean,
Feel how the past his bliss endears.
Retires from life's more active scene,
Ere time writes wrinkles on his brow,
Survey that hour with thankful mien:
And looking round with joy serene
On blessings won by toilsome years,
With heart, and hands, and conscience clean,
Feel how the past his bliss endears.
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Thine is no blood-stained victor-wreath,
Won in the fields of martial fame;
The trumpet's peal, the bugle's breath,
May swell not to exalt thy name:
Gentler and purer is its claim,
Nor unconfest its calm appeal;
And well thy bard might blush for shame,
If its full force he could not feel.
Won in the fields of martial fame;
The trumpet's peal, the bugle's breath,
May swell not to exalt thy name:
Gentler and purer is its claim,
Nor unconfest its calm appeal;
And well thy bard might blush for shame,
If its full force he could not feel.
If many a year of arduous toil
Devoted to a noble art,
Patience—which pain could never foil,
Honour—that blunted slander's dart,
Kindness—which soothed the mourner's heart,
And manners, gentle and benign;
May gratulating thoughts impart,—
Such, honoured friend, are justly thine.
Devoted to a noble art,
Patience—which pain could never foil,
Honour—that blunted slander's dart,
Kindness—which soothed the mourner's heart,
And manners, gentle and benign;
May gratulating thoughts impart,—
Such, honoured friend, are justly thine.
Where pain and sickness proved their power,
Numbers have blessed thy timely skill;
Where this was bootless,—in the hour
Of anguish, when the heart grew chill,
Thy sympathy, like balm, hath still
Fallen upon hearts by sorrow riven,
Wakening on earth a grateful thrill,
And prayers which soared, for thee, to heaven.
Numbers have blessed thy timely skill;
Where this was bootless,—in the hour
Of anguish, when the heart grew chill,
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Fallen upon hearts by sorrow riven,
Wakening on earth a grateful thrill,
And prayers which soared, for thee, to heaven.
Nor less in many a wretched cot,
Where lonely want laid down to die,
Mindful of poverty's hard lot,
Hath thy unpurchased aid been nigh:
Glad tears have risen to many an eye,
Called by thy generous kindness forth,
And the poor sufferer's heart-felt sigh
Of gratitude—confessed thy worth.
Where lonely want laid down to die,
Mindful of poverty's hard lot,
Hath thy unpurchased aid been nigh:
Glad tears have risen to many an eye,
Called by thy generous kindness forth,
And the poor sufferer's heart-felt sigh
Of gratitude—confessed thy worth.
Such are not profitless, though dumb;
For Heaven records each kindly deed,
And word, and thought;—a time will come
When such for thee shall loudly plead;
And acts un-asked for, and un-fee'd,
Unknown, unthought of, then shall live,
And for thee win a richer meed
Than aught this world could ever give.
For Heaven records each kindly deed,
And word, and thought;—a time will come
When such for thee shall loudly plead;
And acts un-asked for, and un-fee'd,
Unknown, unthought of, then shall live,
And for thee win a richer meed
Than aught this world could ever give.
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Then welcome to life's calm retreat,
From its most toilsome, hourly care;
May every boon that makes it sweet,
Around thy social hearth repair;
And every bliss that man can share,
Comfort while here, and hope above,
All that can prompt warm friendship's prayer,
Crown thee and thine with peace and love.
From its most toilsome, hourly care;
May every boon that makes it sweet,
Around thy social hearth repair;
And every bliss that man can share,
Comfort while here, and hope above,
All that can prompt warm friendship's prayer,
Crown thee and thine with peace and love.
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