A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
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 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
But 'tis not mine to trace along its course
The stream of history from its early source.
I need not chronicle the immortal names,
The noble deeds and yet more noble aims,
Which shed the lustre of their deathless glory
Not o'er this spot alone—but through the story,
Which proud America records, and which will shine
Long as our rocks are wet by ocean's brine.
But while our thoughts are gathering brilliant dreams
From the dim Past and its exhaustless themes,
Let us look round us and before, to see
What we now are—and what we yet must be.
The stream of history from its early source.
I need not chronicle the immortal names,
The noble deeds and yet more noble aims,
Which shed the lustre of their deathless glory
Not o'er this spot alone—but through the story,
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Long as our rocks are wet by ocean's brine.
But while our thoughts are gathering brilliant dreams
From the dim Past and its exhaustless themes,
Let us look round us and before, to see
What we now are—and what we yet must be.
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |