Poems of home and country | ||
Sweet land of Liberty,
Of thee I sing.”
ECHOES OF “AMERICA.”
The tones of love that in my youth broke on my ravished ear,
The swelling notes from infant lips, the anthem of the free,
When childish voices trilled the song, ‘My country, 't is of thee’?
New climes and seasons greet me here, new flowers, fruits and skies,—
But still my heart, untravelled, turns, dear native land, to thee;
I sing again the old refrain, ‘Sweet land of liberty’!”
“Dear native land, its light, its love, how can I e'er forget?”
She heard the strain; her bounding heart longed for the brave and free;
She breathed in ecstasy of love, “Sweet land of Liberty!”
Her throbbing heart grew wild with joy to greet the thrill again.
She fainted as the glorious sound along the gamut ran,
“Is this the land of liberty?” “Alas, 't is but Japan!”
Freedom that speaks the words of peace, healer of human strife.
Visions of love came o'er the soul; in faith, they rose to see
The tribes of all the people earth made, through the Gospel, free.
1.
Part I.
POEMS OF HOME.
FAMILY PICTURES.
I. DOMESTIC BEGINNINGS.
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES.
Those days of simple truth,—
The harmless sports and noisy joys
Of boyhood and of youth;
Chorus.
But when upon those early scenesWe suffer thought to dwell,
We'll drink to their dear memory from
The pure, the pure deep well.
We tread each hallowed spot
Where time in giddy gladness flew,—
Oh, can they be forgot!
Roll back the swelling sea;
An hour we'll give to think upon
Our days of youthful glee;
Their joys fled fast away;
The friends of our bright boyhood's morn,—
Oh, tell me, where are they!
Our onward path we tread,
As mournfully we gather up
The mantles of the dead.
The friends who now are not;
The scenes we loved, those joyous hours,—
They shall not be forgot.
TO LITTLE MARY WHITE.
“OUR FIRST-BORN.”
Thou precious pledge of love,Of ties that bind two kindred hearts in one,
Dear infant Mary; 't is with joy we hail
Thy coming; and with joy we both shall strive
To make thee happy, useful, thro' the scenes
Of mortal life. Heaven watch o'er thee, my child,
Thro' all thy infant slumbers; guard thee well
In youth's most tempting perils; spare thy life,
To us as precious as our own, and give,
When life shall end, a crown of joy.
My child, this is a world of grief and change;
And 't is a high behest, beyond the lot
Of changeful earthliness and worldly pride,
Which thou art sent to finish. When the day
That brings the power of knowing right and wrong
Shall be to thee, whate'er thou art, and where,
Know this, and 'grave it on thy memory,
Thy father and thy mother, fearing God,
Did, on this day which gave thee life and light,
To Him that life and light devote. Know, then,
Thou must not think thyself thine own on earth,
For thou art wholly consecrate to God,
Born for His service, given for His praise.
So live that thou mayst honor Him, and then
Sit down in heaven with all the glorified.
CRADLE SONG.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Our cottage vale is deep;
The little lamb is on the green,
His snowy fleece is soft and clean,
Sleep, baby, sleep!
I would not, would not weep;
The little lamb—he never cries—
How bright and happy are his eyes,
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy rest shall angels keep;
The lamb before the doors shall feed,
And suffer neither want nor need.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Near where the woodbines creep;
Be like the lamb so meek and mild,
A sweet and kind and gentle child.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
SALLIE.
Among the saints in light,
Blest Saviour, at thy own right hand,
And walk with thee in white.
And sharp affliction's rod,
Or short her pathway to the skies,
Oh, may it end in God!
TO MY BLESSED WIFE.
ON THE BIRTH OF OUR “FIRST-BORN.”
The breath of thy first-born. There are on earth
A thousand pleasant sounds, but none like that
In which the little babe, by slender cries,
Its earliest wants, else all unknown, reveals.
There is no sight to the young mother's eye
So full of sweet attractiveness, in all the scenes,
Tho' grand or beautiful in every part,
Of the Creator's works, as in the form
Of infant feebleness, and the first ray
In which its opening eye, unknowingly,
Looks up.
The God we worship hath entrusted now
One of His jewels, to be trained on earth
For heaven's bright treasure-house. Oh, may He spare
The life so sweet and young, and ours, so full
Of weal or woe to her condition. And may He,
Who heard the prayer of Hannah, list to ours,
And take this dedicated child, to serve
And glorify Him here—then shine above,
A star of matchless radiance, in the crown
Of our Redeemer.
OUR FRANK.
And gentle heart, and meek, fond, clinging ways,
O'er whom the tearful eye and careful hand
Watched long and faithful, half in hope, and half
Too near despair, dreaming that thy young life,
Like flickering taper, would ere long go out,
And early blight assail thy slight weak frame.
Now thou art grown a strong and noble boy;
Health flushes thy young cheek, and from thy mouth
Pour shouts of childish joy. What hopes in thee
Lie treasured, child of our prayers, our eldest son!
'T will come on thee; it has on all the earth.
God be thy shield, and God thy comforter;
We yield thee up to Him. Be thou His child,
Prompt to obey His will; His messenger,
To bear to darkened men the light of life;
His loving, loved disciple. May thy head
Rest on the Saviour's bosom, fitting place
For one whom earthly rest can never fill;
For gentle souls, for spirits born to be
Immortal as their author.
A pillar of the truth on earth, and then
A gem, to shine with living, glowing light
Bright in the Saviour's coronet.
TO LITTLE ANN.
Ere one brief day was given,
Just gleamed on earth, a fitful ray,
Then shone, a star in heaven.
We laid her 'neath the sod,—
Our earliest representative
Before the throne of God.
DANIEL APPLETON WHITE.
Not Miss, but Mr., Fudge;
A master-spirit, born to be
Surnamed “the little judge”!
In wit and knowledge big;
Fat as an alderman, and decked,
Judge-like, in his white wig.
The Master bids you trudge!
For I, in all these parts, am made
His Majesty, the Judge!
My rank of power to grudge?
I'll have my way; I know I'm right,
Left-handed, but a judge!
(Why don't the babies budge?)
“I'm coming down at one broad leap!”
There sprawling lies the judge.
Another, doubtless, can;
Now don't you think this wondrous judge
Will make a wondrous man?
It was understood from the beginning that he was to be a lawyer, like his great-uncle whose name he bore; but he became a minister and a Doctor of Divinity.
II. ANNIVERSARIES.
TO MY DAUGHTER MARY, ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTH-DAY.
The woman from the child:
Enter life's great career at last,—
No more with toys beguiled.
The bright world opens wide,—
Go, be a woman, glad assume
The toils which thee abide!
What fate thy lot may be;
But meet it bravely, strong in faith,
God rules thy destiny.
Like sunlight on the wave,
Earth's rapid joys and trials pass;
Jehovah lives to save.
Make love and gladness spring;
Reap in all fields; from every task
Some sheaves of goodness bring.
So bright shall be thy days;
No flattering words shall make thy fame;
Thy works shall be thy praise.
TO MY DAUGHTER MARY, ON HER WEDDING DAY.
Forth from its sunlit bowers,
Fly like the bird, intent to roam,
And try her new fledged powers.
The nest so warm and fair;
And nature's glories round her pour,
When free in upper air.
With warbling throat, she flies;
She sings and soars, and soars and sings,
Plumed for the distant skies.
With trusting faith aspire;
Life's beckoning labors bid thee come;
The high behest desire.
Like verdure on the sod,
Love, pure and ardent, lingers still
Where'er thy steps have trod.
TO MY DAUGHTER, MARY W. JONES,
ON HER TWENTY-FIFTH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY.
Speeding through happy years, loving and learning,
So gently led through flowery paths of blessing,
Life's truest joys in all their wealth possessing.
What forms of bliss, before my fancy waving,
Still lured me on,—life's pathway scarcely broken,
And love's first lisping utterance scarcely spoken?
Would the reality be like the seeming?
Have I life's choicest pleasures overstated?
Have I its Paradises antedated?
Their joyous flight around, soaring and singing;
Day feel no chill of twilight's damp descending,
Nor sunshine, risen in glow, find darkened ending?
Thank God, pain's light yoke grows forever lighter!
The sunny course, which seemed at first so winning,
Confirms, a thousand fold, its fair beginning.
Told the sweet tale of strength and weakness meeting,
In summertide alike, and stormy weather,
Drawing the weak and strong closer together.
Stands at our age's door, a loving sentry;
Fitly, with filial clasp in clasp maternal,
Binding the love-knot of our season vernal.
But only brilliant morns and glad to-morrows,
Till life at last, from earthly, grows supernal,
And joy, from earthly joy, becomes eternal.
TO SALLIE, ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY.
Flies like the mist away;
But weaves around our fragrant bowers
The light of summer's ray.
Gives way to autumn's reign;
And every swelling garner teems
With heaps of golden grain.
That nobler youth may rise;
And youth to riper age aspires
And yearns for Paradise.
Swells with the life to be,
And ripening years prepare the dower
Of immortality.
To holier calls respond;
Upward with joyful vigor haste,
The goal is still beyond.
Childhood from ripening life;
Go, see what work thy hand abides,
And dare the noble strife.
Direct and guard thy way;
So shall life's promises expand
In fair, immortal day.
TO FRANK, ON HIS TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
SEPTEMBER 5, 1857.
To life's exalted aims!
The world awaits thee; go and meet
Its just and lofty claims.
Stem its o'erwhelming tide,
Breast all its waves with manly force,
And in God's strength abide.
Go with strong arm and free,
To do His bidding, and await
Life's opening destiny.
From the small acorn riven,
Spreads far and wide its sheltering boughs,
And lifts its head to heaven,—
Pursue thy widening way,
Blessing and blest, till time shall bring
The light of endless day.
EWING AT TWENTY-ONE.
With morn's bright promise round thee spread,
Live nobly, that earth's waiting train
May pour their blessings on thy head.
Go forth, thy destiny to meet;
Let tireless hope and lofty aims
Make darkness light and labor sweet.
From every field rich harvests bring;
None is too poor some fruit to yield,
Let ripening glory crown life's spring.
God's covenant grace shall still abide,
Like Israel's pillared cloud and fire,—
By day, thy light; by night, thy guide.
The proud, the base, unnoticed, fall,
Thy deeds shall be like garnered sheaves,
And God shall bind and keep them all.
TO MY WIFE AT FIFTY.
A little more, perhaps;
When the heart is good and loving,
How fast the years elapse.
We count time, not by pulse-beats,
Or wrinkles on the brow,
But by love's broad, lighted circle,—
An ever-lingering Now.
Oh, no, the loving lines
Drawn round the earth, like girdles,
Have here impressed their signs;
And if white rose leaves sprinkle
Their sheen upon her hair,
The once bright auburn tresses
A silvery beauty wear.
It might be thirty less,—
Her young heart has such power
To care for and to bless;
As sunshine near the evening
Smiles with a fairer ray,
And makes the hour of setting
The sweetest in the day.
But one that filled her nest
Boasts of her thirty summers,
And a rosebud on her breast;
And one, grave years creep o'er him
And graver scenes employ,—
Now, a young, doting father,
But her once fair-haired boy;
With fond, maternal look;
And one, his life consuming
O'er legal brief and book;
And two, intently watching
The shadows cast before,—
I might have written twenty,
But yet it must be more.
Perhaps a little more;
No matter what the number,
'T is all a shining store,—
As summer wakes new blessings
With every day that springs;
And every breeze comes wafting
Fresh fragrance on its wings.
Like glancing sunbeams sped,
Since angels sang, responsive,
Around her cradle-bed;
They chanted love and promise,
Not time, or years, to be;
No matter what the number,
Perhaps 't is fifty-three.
OUR GOLDEN WEDDING.
1834–1884.
Through sunshine and through showers;
The spring has ripened into fall,
The buds have turned to flowers.
Since the far days of old!
But love has changed each woe to good,
The silver moon to gold.
How brief and few they seem!
Swift as a summer-day of joy,
Eventful as a dream!
And called them “children” then;
The girls are into mothers grown,
The boys to stalwart men.
The date seems far away;
But years have shortened into months,
Months into fleeting days.
With canvas all unfurled,
Successful voyagers, our keel
Has sailed half round the world.
A shelter o'er our head;
And still by night our winding course
The pillared fire has led.
Unharmed by wind or wave;
The hand so skilful to direct,
Is mighty, too, to save.
Shines o'er the distant sea,
And guides the vessel to its port,
Blest immortality.
TO CARRIE ON HER FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY.
Hast thou so stately grown?
And can thy years be fifty,—
My little one, my own?
Thy love, thy sunny temper,
Thy sweet and blessed ways
Made thee a child of promise
In all thy early days.
I took no note of time;
Art thou a wife,—a mother?
While babes around thee climb?
Art thou, in light and power,
One of the world's bright rays?
Do thy companions bless thee;
And are thy works thy praise?
Have brought thee joy and grief,
As thou to many a weak one
Hast ministered relief.
A blessing to the living,
A watcher o'er the dead,
Heaven weaves its crown of honor,
A halo round thy head.
To find his home above,
Heaven has its many mansions,
Heaven is the land of love;
Trial may prove a blessing
O heart, be still and brave,
Wait for the great revealing,—
God takes but what He gave.
The morning sun ascends,
And in a fairer radiance
His western journey ends,—
So from the sweet beginnings,
A brighter noon shall grow,
And Heaven shall crown thy fifties
With its immortal glow.
MY WIFE, TO A FRIEND WHO WOULD GUESS HER AGE.
Your guess is far from true;
She has grown dearer many a year,
But not yet “sixty-two.”
Have dropped the crystal dew,—
The pearls flow down in silver gloss;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”
Alike the old and new,
She must be quite advanced, perhaps,—
Well, far from “sixty-two.”
Had you a better clew;
You judge her by her wisdom?—Well,
She is not “sixty-two.”
Her heart so warm and true,—
Tell tales of years of joy and love;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”
With clustering offshoots grew,
And other bowers have reared their young;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”
Her sky, still bright and blue,
Bends, loving, round her youthful head;
Yet she 's not “sixty-two.”
Suggests “Serenely wait,
And sometime, on some pleasant morn,
She'll wake, just fifty-eight.”
OUR FIFTY-NINTH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY.
But that which is all price above,
The festal marriage-day provides,—
Mercies to cheer and hearts to love.
And each has left its radiant line;
The fifty long ago were told,
And now, behold, 't is fifty-nine.
Whose favor blessed the earlier days,
Shine on the years that yet remain,
While silver hairs proclaim thy praise.
SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.
TO MY WIFE, SEPTEMBER 16, 1834–1894.
With all their joys and tears,
Have rolled by,
Since we, made one for life,
Were wedded, man and wife,
You and I.
The lands where we have been,
You and I,
Will linger on the brain,
Like some sweet song's refrain,
Till we die.
Whose love our hearts have proved,
Yours and mine,—
Some are our solace yet;
Some, like bright suns, now set,
Still they shine.
Like shadows o'er the grass,—
Love endures;
Plants of immortal root
Cluster immortal fruit,
Ours-and-yours.
TO MARY REED (FRANK'S WIFE), AT FIFTY.
FEBRUARY 9, 1843–1893.
The scenes they have brought us seem only a dream,—
Like shooting stars, crossing the ocean of blue,
Or bubbles of air floating down on the stream.
The months, in their flight, have rolled up into years,
With shadows and brightness, with sorrows and joys,
The glow of their hopes, and their faith, and their tears.
How rapid the pace, and how far off the start;
We note them, we count them; but what are the years,
If only young love lingers warm in the heart?
And marked on his tally more years than have sped;
No blush of the red rose has paled from your cheek,
No petal of white fluttered down on your head.
Like flowers by the tempest your heart has been bowed;
But Love has provided more gladness than gloom,
More mercy than judgment, more sunshine than cloud.
How lovely, how swiftly the fifty have passed!
With glow of the sunset, and glory, and peace,
May fifty be added,—the crown of the last.
TO MY BELOVED WIFE, AT SEVENTY.
Has changed to autumn's brown;
The glossy head, for auburn curls,
Now wears a silver crown.
So seldom tempest-tossed!
How joy and love have filled the space
Between the bloom and frost!
Hast traced, from distant seas,
The northern crown and southern cross,
And felt the tropic breeze.
Known in the world's highways;
Thy husband, too,—and he, with theirs,
This loving tribute pays.
God's loving care has led;
And countless blessings has His hand,
Like spring-flowers, round thee shed.
That human years may fill,—
God's covenant love, God's promised grace
Will shield and guide thee still.
Blest boon to mortals given,—
Or smooth, or rough, at last shall prove
One long, sweet path to heaven.
TO MY WIFE ON HER SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.
RETROSPECTIVE PICTURES.
Her trade in books and pen,
Like one who scatters lovely pearls;
Her sunny years,—just ten.
What changes time has wrought!
How swift the sobering years have flown,
With noblest purpose fraught!
His, “Wilt thou?” her “I will;”
She pledged her faith without a fear,
Risking, or good,—or ill.
In sweet affection twine,
Successive, with their tendrils fair
Around the clustering vine.
Life's harder conflicts done,
Her sunny curls with silver streaked,
Life's golden prizes won.
Now with her five times ten,
In peace and hope she walks and lives,
Lives, in her babes, again.
And so she lingers still;
Her cup of good, at six times ten,
What constant blessings fill!
Sheltered and led of God,
At seven times ten her favored steps
Remotest empires trod.
Walk on, with trusting feet,
Till years full twenty-five shall make
Thy century complete.
TO MY WIFE ON HER EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.
This poem divides fourscore years of life into four parts, of one score each. It proceeds on the idea that the first score of a life of eighty years is mainly a period of labor and promise, like spring; the second, of vigorous toil, activity, and growth, like summer; the third, harvest and fruit from the preceding period, like autumn; the fourth, rest and beauty, like winter, which is marked by the rest and crystalline beauty incident to that season.
First Score.—Spring.
A score of years!—as spring maturesIts tender bud, and leaf, and bloom,
While Time's swift shuttle flies and weaves
The loveliest tints in nature's loom,
Day after day the picture grows
Beneath the weaver's skilful hand,
Till the sweet beauty stands complete,
Which love conceived and wisdom planned,—
So light and shade, and night and day,
Blessed the fair flower of human mould,
While frame and form, and heart and mind,
Hasted like petals to unfold;
What tint and tone of grace they bore,
What richest fruits! 't was just a score.
Second Score.—Summer.
A second score!—as summer callsThe fervent heart and toiling hand
To wield the scythe, to bind the sheaf,
To answer labor's high demand,
All the long day, till evening lowers,
Life bids to work, its stern behest
Demands the workman's grandest powers,—
So in the summer tide of hope
With ceaseless pains the matron wrought,
By noble deeds and nobler aims
Enriching life, inspiring thought.
What summer growth those labors bore!
What ripening fruits!—life's second score.
Third Score.—Autumn.
Threescore!—how richly autumn bendsBeneath her weight of fruit and flowers!
Beauty and plenty glow and meet,
Like garlands twined around her bowers;
The heat and drought, the dew and rain,
And wearing toil which months record.
God notes them all,—no work is lost,
And each at last brings large reward.
So harvests from thy heart and hand
Are heaped along the world's highways;
Children and children's children blend
Their voices in thy worthy praise.
Thy works, the third, the fruitful score,
Are like the autumn's garnered store.
Fourth Score.—Winter.
Fourscore!—how sweet, how fair the scene,When winter spreads, o'er all the earth,
Her bridal robe of purest white,
Her crystal gems, of heavenly birth!
Peace reigns where all was life and care;
Nature keeps jubilee of rest;
This is the loveliest, the best.
So when the vessel nears its port,
Its anchor in smooth water cast,
With its rich cargo safe at home,
It rides the gentle wave at last;
Yet sail along this peaceful shore,
I pray, dear wife, another score.
TO MY WIFE, AT EIGHTY-ONE.
Since first I called her mine.
“How many years?” I'll tell you, friend,—
Why, fifty years and nine;
So many years we talked of “ours,”
And never “mine” and “thine.”
A queen with silver hair.
Oh, never mind the months and days;
The things that people wear
Are all outside; there 's something else,
That 's ever young and fair.
Love, the best gift of heaven;
A clasp that holds when meaner ties
Grow feeble, or are riven;
It keeps its circle perfect, like
The Hebrew number “seven.”
Alike in calm and storm;
Our birdies, in bright plumage dressed,
Of comely growth and form,
Have fled the nest,—the dear old nest,—
And still the nest is warm.
Thy fairy lips have sung;
And sweeter for the fragrant flowers
Around thy pathway flung,—
God's gift, as true in silvery age
As when they called thee “young.”
Its gladness and its sun,
Dear for the thousand things thou art,
For thousands thou hast done,
Blest are the years thy life has spanned,
Thy fourscore years and one.
TO MY WIFE ON HER EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY.
That mark the flight of years,
And, thoughtful, take account of stock,—
The joys, the hopes, the fears,
That crowd the life, or broad or brief,
Along the curious maze,
A precious tribute, each, in turn,
On Memory's altar lays.
In thy young brilliant life,
When, without change of soul or name,
Thou wast a wedded wife.
Forget? Oh, no; nor, nobler still,
The blessings of that other,
When infant beauty on thee smiled,
Saluting thee as mother.
Comes to the rose the dew,
And gladdening as the perfumed breeze.
Thy heart so warm and true;
Knitting fresh links of love and bliss,
An ever-lengthening chain,
Thine is the honored sum, to-day,
Of fourscore years and twain.
III. TENDER PARTINGS.
ELIZABETH, THE INFANT ANGEL.
Too fair, too sweet, 'mid earth's rude blasts to stay,
Safe in the bosom of thy Father, God,
Bright, beauteous infant, from thy cumbering clay
So soon escaped, its happy heavenward way
Thy soul hath taken. Like the light of morn,
Thou didst shed on us one fair passing ray,
Then to thy glorious Source, thou, babe, wast borne.
Babe of fair promise, child of fondest prayer!
Hail, rescued spirit! painful is the rod;
But never will we mourn that thou art there.
Bright gem, we would not tear thee from thy crown,
Nor bid thy harp, sweet seraph, silent lie;
Stay in thy mansion, infant, still our own,
Never to grieve again, or fear, or die.
Life was to thee too sweet a boon to last.
What joy it gave thee, gentle morning flower!
How soon the glorious pageant o'er thee passed!
Passed! Yes, from earth,—but fairer life is thine;
The vale of death thy little foot hath trod;
And now in life immortal thou dost shine,
Dear infant, in the paradise of God.
THE JEWEL AND ITS SETTING.
Set in its lovely frame;
How on the prize my heart was fixed
From the bright day it came!
As fair as fair could be;
And art divine had done its best
To make it sweet to me.
The purple haze of distant hills,
The evening's golden light,
The bending rainbow's painted arch,
Were, to my eye, less bright.
Across the summer sea;
The grace that winds the clinging vine
Around the greenwood tree;
The weeping elm, the stately pine;
The breath of fragrant flowers;
The broad, blue sky, the landscape green,
The leafy, sheltering bowers;
The dark line of the circling hills
Around the horizon's verge;
The blue rim of the far-off sea,
Where billows toss and surge,—
All have their glory; all, their worth;
On each the dazzled eye
Loves to look lingeringly, and gaze
Raptured and dreamily;
Seems round its charms to fall,—
The setting of my beauteous gem
To me surpassed them all.
The priceless, sparkling gem,
Fit honor for a princely hand,
Or regal diadem.
The jewel made the setting bright,
Within whose clasp it shone;
'T was for its sake the frame was carved;
The chief charm was its own.
And mornings went and came;
And still the precious jewel there
Flashed in its precious frame.
At last, some sad, sad chance befell,
Which dashed it to the ground:
The precious setting, ruined, fell;
The gem was safe and sound.
The frame, his cherished form;
I pressed it to my throbbing heart,
Dreading some wasting storm.
The storm has spoiled the setting fair,
But for a season given;
The gem I prized, unharmed, still shines
Forever safe in heaven.
IN MEMORY OF MARY WHITE SMITH.
RANGOON, BURMAH, FEBRUARY 5, 1888.
They beckon me away
From night and pain, from sin and death,
To gladness, light, and day.
What pure white robes they wear
'T will be a heaven of untold bliss
To dwell forever there.
I hear, I hear them raise,
In sweetest tone, in words unknown,
Their songs of joy and praise!
To you such grace is given;
Come, for of children such as thou
The kingdom is of heaven!
With happy feet she trod,
And found, so young, that blessed home,
The paradise of God.
TWO GARDENS,
THE HEAVENLY AND THE EARTHLY.
Kept by one gardener's care,
Smiled in the sweet and sunny light,
And breathed with perfumed air.
As if in early spring
An angel, clad in rainbow dyes,
Shook beauty from his wing.
No blight on bud or bloom;
No lowering cloud, no chilling dew,
No emblem of the tomb.
A chastened sadness lay,
As when the evening shadows close
Around a summer's day.
Fair as a glorious gem;
But rose and lily, doomed to fade,
Sat on a fragile stem.
A sweet sequestered bower,
Breathed fragrance where its bloom was nursed,
And grew, a matchless flower.
And chose a flower so rare
To grace his other garden-bed
And so removed it there.
A land of cloudless skies,
The gathered lily fitly blooms,—
A flower of Paradise.
IV. REUNIONS.
SALLIE'S HOME.
The home of peace, and hope and love;
The green fields wide expand below,
And heaven's blue arch bends sweet above.
Like angels floating from the sky;
And twittering birds around the eaves
Whisper of unseen homes on high.
Pours his fair light in golden streams,
And morn and eve and glowing noon
Are gladdened by his healing beams.
For patience, work, and worldly care;
For books, and friends, and widening thought,
For tranquil joy, and holy prayer.
Beyond the wealth of Sheba's queen;
The pleasant homes, the clustering vines,
The long cathedral aisles of green.
Is pillowed on the Saviour's breast;
Mine, through His grace whose promise bids
The widowed heart on Him to rest.
Myself and all I call my own.
I bow, submissive to His will;
I kneel, a supplicant, at His throne.
On Him I lean, on Him I call,
Rejoiced, were all my comforts fled,
To find in Him my all in all.
AT THE OLD HEARTHSTONE AGAIN.
SEPTEMBER 16, 1876.
At the full moon in September,
A fair young girl, in brilliant curls,—
Long ago, but we remember,—
She pledged her loving heart and hand,
In the joy of opening life,
Thenceforth to be, or weal or woe,
A fond and faithful wife.
Began their course together,
Making one life,—like rainbow hues
Blended in showery weather.
A day, a happy moon, a year,
The tide of time rolled on;
Days, weeks and moons,—oh, who can tell
Where the glad year has gone?
Another life was breathing:
Three souls—not two—in union new,
Young buds of joy were wreathing;
Two Marys made the mansion bright,—
Two Marys, great and small;
And one high shadowing arm of love
Embraced and gladdened all.
Like dewdrops of the morning,
The unwarlike infantry advanced,—
Married life's best adorning;
And joy and promise, hope and love,
Illumed with shining ray,
As sunbeams glittering on the sea,
Life's varied, cheerful day.
White rose-leaves came to sprinkle,
And near the corner of the eyes
Appeared just one small wrinkle,
Six youths and maidens stood within
Those loving arms, caressing,
These prizing what those joyed to give,
The sire's and mother's blessing.
Works the most wondrous changes!
How the arithmetic of youth
That slippery elf deranges!
The six are twelve; the twelve,—ah me!—
Eleven more, sweet mother.
To these add HIM and HER; and, please,
The NINETY makes one other.
Then Mary made it three;
One wore, long since, the shining robes
Of immortality.
My head is puzzled o'er the count;
My brain is in a fix!
'T was two, 't was three, 't was four—and now
They say it 's twenty-six.
One Anna,—now two more;
One S. F. S.,—now three; two Sa.'s,
And babies, half a score.
Of lawyers, two; of preachers, four;
Of presidents, a pair.
What wonders, in the land of dreams!
On earth, what wonders rare!
One precious band, we mingle;
Each for the others bound to live,
No heart, no interest, single.
Some keep and bless the early home;
Some watch where day beams wake;
And some where gorgeous evening dies,—
All for each other's sake.
For years, the jewels brightening:
Each joy, through Him, made richer joy,
Each grief, He, for all, lightening;
Till, in some happy clime rejoined,—
Rejoined, no more to sever,
We meet, and weep, and sing, and praise,
And love,—love on, forever.
SOCIAL AMENITIES.
KIND GREETINGS.
THE FRIENDSHIPS WE FORMED.
HARVARD CLASS OF '29.
The friendships we formed when life was still young;The sports that we joined in, the songs we then sung,—
How oft from the chambers of memory they well,
Like the echo of waves in the beautiful shell.
The griefs we have met on the pathway of life,
The conquests won bravely amid the stern strife,
The light and the shadow, the joy and the woe,—
Form, like sunshine and raindrop, the radiant bow
That rests on the brow of the storms that are o'er,
That lights up the wave where it breaks on the shore,
That fades like the fair hues of hopes that are riven,
But sails, as it fades, thro' the blue arch of heaven.
The garlands we wove on the foretop of Time,
Tho' robbed of the freshness they wore in our prime;
The castles we built, so lofty and fair,
Tho' crumbled to dust, or vanished in air;
The barks we once freighted, with hearts beating high,
And launched on the sea without tremor or sigh,
The more grand their career, the more sad and more brief;
Tho' the plants we have loved to angels are given,
Having climbed o'er the wall, and are blooming in heaven,—
Still this chain of our love does not weaken with years,
Nor wear with the friction of toil and of tears;
Nor crumble in dust, nor vanish like breath;
Nor chill with the darkness, and shadow of death;
Nor perish in shipwreck, nor waste in the tomb,—
A thing to be lost in earth's gathering gloom.
Tho' Time's jealous fingers make all things decay,
We brighten its links as the years pass away;
We fastened the lock in our youth and our glee,
Then wandered abroad and have lost the sole key.
But the heart-clasp unites so firmly the chain
That 't is welded by time, and must ever remain.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND AT TWENTY-ONE.
That cross thy life's unfolding plan,
And leave the plays that please the child,
For toils that dignify the man.
The coming years to thee belong.
With stern ambition climb the heights;
Let hardships only make thee strong.
Be thy whole life a life of love;
By noble thoughts and lofty aims,
Thyself to men and God approve.
The land thy fathers died to save;
They, the real nobles of the earth,
The true, the loyal, and the brave.
Frown on the wrong, the right defend;
Spurn from thy soul all selfish aims;
Do thy whole duty till the end.
Thy deeds thy monument shall raise;
The world shall bless thy honored name,
And men unborn shall speak thy praise.
TO A YOUNG MAIDEN.
As blushing tints still mantle o'er the shellWhose tiny owner dwells in it no more;
As fragrant rose-leaves to the traveller tell
Where nodded in its pride the beauteous flower,—
So may thy path through this fair world be strewn
With sweet remembrances, to rouse and cheer
The weary wanderer, gladly forced to own
Where thou hast trod, a joy still lingers there.
REV. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE'S 70TH BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION.
Lights up the landscape with intenser glow;
The arch of days—some, bright; some, dull with raining—
Is spanned and clasped with heaven's fair, radiant bow.
Honored and happy, how they fled away!
Earth of its woes, and time of stings despoiling,
Day ever brightening into fairer day!
Changed to the eloquence of active men!
How many, fallen in life's stern storm and battle,
Passed on, and crowned, will come no more again!
With friends and voices known and loved so well!
And deft with inspiration, Fancy's fingers
Weave the old histories with their magic spell.
The juicy vine festoons the sunny hill,—
Its summer foliage, fresh and full, displaying,
And clusters ripening on the trellis still.
How strangely wrong our judgment is, of men;
In form and feature, strong and youthful seeming,
We lose the date, and think age young again.
And whispering winds their fragrant incense breathe;
Faith, hope, and love the pilgrim spirit strengthen,
And hands unseen their benedictions wreathe.
Evades the prying of our human ken!
We trust the future to His wise upholding
Whose love has watched the threescore years and ten!
DEACON GEORGE W. CHIPMAN, AT SEVENTY.
Who has fulfilled his mission nobly among the sons of men,—
Like a warrior, safe returning from a hundred well-fought fields,
Like a reaper, with his arms full of the sheaves good tillage yields.
'T is always so when the angels set to weaving glory's crown,
Nor is his natural force abridged, nor his peerless sight grown dim.
So a tree amid the forest, braving storm and tempest, stands;
So the lighthouse, sending forth its rays across the billowy foam,
Unmoved while the generations pass, guides many a pilgrim home.
The lisping girls are matrons; the boys, gray-beard men are grown;
The old nests, or others like them, on the old branches hang,
And the younger broods still warble as the birds of old time sang;
And the eye that saw, the voice that led, the heart that loved their trill,
Though fifty springs have vanished, sees them, leads them, loves them, still.
How the many earlier reapers from the field of toil have passed,
And memory round their absent forms has its mantle of glory cast!
They passed as the twilight passes into the noontide ray,
As the morning star is melted in the light of glowing day.
Some, glorified, walk with the Lamb on high, in raiment of dazzling light.
Thank God, as suns at setting shed their glow on each purple hill,
One orb, that shone at morn and noon, in its brightness lingers still.
A Nestor, in the field he tilled, we cannot think him old!
No ice has chilled his tropic heart, no rust forms on the gold.
He speaks,—men listen to his word; he moves, as if with wings.
Erect his form, and on his face not a channel left to show
How the glaciers of olden time slid down into the valleys below.
His bright meridian sun, perchance, down towards the horizon dips,
But sinks behind no shadowing cloud, is hid by no eclipse;
As new year follows new year, and day wakens after day,
Onward, and upward, upward still, it holds its shining way;
And setting, like the orbs of night behind the darkening west,
When the hours of noble toil have earned the fitting hours of rest,
It will set, alone to this lower sphere, but, by a law sublime,
Set only to rise in glorious light in a far brighter clime.
LYMAN JEWETT, D.D., ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.
Beloved apostle of thy loving Lord,
We greet thee gladly on thy festal day,
And gladly at thy feet our tribute lay.
Honored, to reap for God the joyful ears;
Honored, to pray the prayer of faith and love;
Honored, to hear the answer from above;
Honored, when wavering faith, advised to yield,
Bravely to fight in front, and hold the field,
With valiant heart and never-flinching eye,
Foreseeing Christ enthroned, and victory,—
Like soldiers, ere the battle's rage is done,
Sending reports of richest trophies won,
Of armies slain, and hostile banners furled,
Prophetic emblems of a conquered world;
Honored, to bring thy own despatches home,
“The battle gained! The hour of triumph come!”
Honored, to see the idol-temples fall,
And ransomed thousands crown the Lord of all;
Honored, in lonely trust, with wearing toils,
To heap, at Jesus' feet, uncounted spoils
Till “the Lone Star,” on heaven's immortal blue,
At last, a brilliant constellation grew.
What toils, what triumphs, in thy lot combine!
Faithful, to point the weeping eye to heaven;
Grand, a whole world in arms of love to embrace;
Patient, to fill, and grace, the humblest place;
Waiting, from youth to age, life's mystery,
And prompt, unquestioning, Lord, to follow Thee.
Shines o'er the battlements to illumine this;
The crowns, the crowns, almost thy eyes can see,
Bought by atoning blood, faith's mystery!
Songs of the ransomed thou canst almost hear,—
Their lofty melodies awake thine ear;
And earth, redeemed, the glorious pæan sings,
In mighty measures, to the King of kings.
Thy feet three-fourths have trod towards immortality.
TO DEACON J. W. CONVERSE, ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.
Bright in its thoughts, its memories, hopes, and feeling;
The years have scarcely tinged thy locks with gray,
Thy honored age revealing, yet concealing.
What varied cares and trusts, successive pressing,
Have taught thee, leaning on the arm of God,
The rugged path becomes the path of blessing!
A scroll of miracles, slowly unfolding,—
Some, grandly understood; mysterious, some,—
But one dear Hand above, thy own hand holding.
The tell-tale years seeming so little weighty,
Thy buoyant, youthful vigor still the same,—
It might be but eighteen, instead of eighty.
To reverend age, up from the infant's prattle;
Living for Christ's dear cause a life of love;
Honored to dare and do in life's great battle.
Thou to whom fruitful years have long been granted,
Like trees, still verdant 'mid the winter's rage,
Like the rich palms in God's own garden planted.
Swells and expands the deepening, widening river;
So life grows onward from its infant seed,
Broadening, prophetic of the grand forever.
And far the day, thou to whom much is given,
Ere the celestial gates shall open wide
To add to all the crown of life in heaven.
A GOLDEN WEDDING SONG.
REV. AND MRS. W. C. RICHARDS, 1841.
Gifts which attest God's loving hand,
Bright years in all their varied course,
Like streams that glide o'er golden sand.
Ten thousand blessings in their train,
Fraught with unnumbered passing joys,—
Well might we live them o'er again!
To-day revives the sweet refrain;
Love is undying in its source;
Bridegroom and bride, we live again.
And these arrayed in sunny curls?
“Our children, and their children fair,—
Pledges of love, our boys and girls.”
Brother, to whom the trust was given;
To feed the happy flock of God,
And guide the wanderer's steps to heaven.
Has opened all its secret heart,
And taught her wonders to explore,—
A miracle in every part.
In long enduring love combine;
His, the firm trellis for support,
And hers, the sweet and clustering vine.
Guided and kept the loving twain;
And storms that swept the desert path
Fell round their tent like gentle rain.
Oh, linger long thy peaceful days;
Let life be one long wedding feast,
And its whole course, a psalm of praise!
Add to thy honors and thy fame;
Till heaven, on some far distant day,
Bids to the wedding of the Lamb.
A GOLDEN WEDDING.
DR. AND MRS. J. W. PARKER.
Fifty full years! with every virtue rife;
Sweetly and sacredly bound to each other,
A faithful husband and a faithful wife!
Witnessed by loving lives and loving word;
Made nobly one by heaven's divine selection,—
One in each other, one in Christ their Lord!
Sickness or health, prevailed, sunshine or shade;
Skilful from good or ill some boon to borrow,
Each on the other's arm, both on God stayed.
Filled with the grateful memories of the past,
Thanks that thy other self, like God's fair angel,
Is spared to hover round thee to the last.
Earth's ties, dissevered, are but joined above;
Earth's service changed to service without sinning,
And earth's imperfect, to heaven's perfect love.
As years to years were added, sun by sun,
Weaving the threads of life, or dark or shining,
Still one in heart,—in love and purpose one.
Till the brave warrior wears the conqueror's crown,
Till the tired reaper in the gathering evening,
Released from toil, shall lay the sickle down.
No more a symbol, marred by life's dull fever,
Expanding, change into the joy immortal,
And souls, now one on earth, be one forever.
MRS. JOSEPH W. PARKER, LOS ANGELES, CAL., ON HER EIGHTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.
Methinks it cannot be;
I see no frosts nor snowflakes
Gathered on the sunny tree;
There are only white-browed pansies,
Not a snowdrift to be found.
Oh, the snows are all white rose-leaves
Which flutter o'er the ground!
With their tender buds, have passed,”
And how you watch expectant,
The fading of the last?
I only see the blossoms,
And hear the sweet birds sing,
Prophetic of the beauty
Of the immortal spring.
With their grace and glow have fled”?
Do you mourn the early blossoms,
Now sleeping with the dead?
'T is but a mortal counting,
That dotes on tide and clime;
Your youthful heart is weaving
Summer garlands all the time.
Have heaped their harvests in,
And the wintry winds come, blowing,
Where the waving crops have been”?
You are reaping, gentle lady,
Richest harvests, day by day;
The fruits of your bright seed-time
Ever press your pilgrim way.
And all the stars grow dim,
The fringe of coming glory
Lights up the horizon's rim;
And the dear Hand that guided,
Till the tale became fourscore,
Never weary, never fainting,
Will be sure forevermore.
How swiftly the seasons glide!
'T is eighty,—more than eighty,—
And three happy years beside!
Why should we wish them fewer,—
The years that God has given?
The more the finished years of earth,
The nearer, rest and heaven.
GEORGE C. LORIMER.
Thy welcome form at home again;
With joy thy honored face we greet,
Like the glad rainbow after rain.
Not as a hireling for the flock,
Thy well known call sounds as of old;
The ancient key just fits the lock.
From battles fought and victories won,—
Thy old commission newly sealed,
A fresh and grand campaign begun.
The Prince of life shall lead the way,
Marshal the troops, or gain or loss,
His Arm, resistless, wins the day.
The warrior yearns to tread again,
And bless, the fields of mortal strife,—
The peaceful bivouac of the slain.
In ardent love respond to thine,—
The new love, like the former, starts
From the one Root of Life Divine.
If God thy burning words inspire;
We trust in Him to touch thy lips,
Dear prophet, with His hallowed fire.
Obedient to your Leader's call!
Wave the red banner o'er the land,
And crown the Saviour Lord of all!
ADONIRAM JUDSON GORDON.
ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS PASTORATE AT CLARENDON ST., BOSTON, DECEMBER, 26 1894.
Almighty to defend
Thy little flock,
In verdant pastures fed,
To living waters led,
We cling to Thee our Head.
Our sheltering Rock.
The shepherd of our choice,
The proved, the tried;
Strong to obey Thy will,
Thy service to fulfil,
Our loving shepherd still,
Our friend, our guide.
Long may his arm abide,
Strong in Thy might;
Speak through his lips that word
Which listening chaos heard,
And all its depths were stirred,
“Let there be light.”
Immortal glory be,—
We wait Thy word!
Thy glorious kingdom bring,
Bid heaven's great anthem ring;
Christ, Thou of kings art King,
Of lords art Lord!
Dr. Gordon died on Saturday, February 2, 1895 (after a brief illness), universally esteemed and honored, representatives of other church organizations, and many religious and benevolent associations, joining in a tribute to his memory and character.
IN MEMORY AND CONDOLENCE.
WILLIAM HAGUE, D. D.
Brother, beloved of men, approved of God;
Thou of the brilliant speech and silver tongue,
On thy dear lips have wondering thousands hung.
Preacher and pastor,—faithful, polished, mild,
A man in stature, and in love, a child,
Whose look was eloquence, his words, a power,
His life a magic force, his faith, a tower,
His memory vast, an unexhausted store,
His soul, a volume of historic lore;
Man of the people, whom he swayed at will,
Man of the study and the polished quill,—
All good he praised; he pitied where he scorned,
And wise, as just, whate'er he touched, adorned.
Skilful expounder of the sacred word,
Quick to discern, prompt to reveal his Lord,
Profound in thought, wise to observe the times,
His mind, capacious, could embrace all climes,
Lived in all ages, took in land and sea,
The past, the present, and the yet-to-be;
His fervent heart no years could make grow cold,
And age, advancing, never made him old.
To the old standards of the Gospel true,
Nor spurned the old, nor pined for doctrines new;
Maintained the ancient truth with courage bold,—
That truth, forever new, forever old;
And as he died,—heeding the Master's call,—
Pronounced that truth enough for him, for all.
One pulse, the bud,—the next, the full-blown flower;
One instant, here,—the next, beyond the skies;
Now, earth's high noon,—now, noon in Paradise.
This moment, bound by human woes and bars,
The next, in peerless light, beyond the stars;
From earth's high summer snatched, and blooming bowers,
To heaven's immortal glow and fadeless flowers;
Now, on the threshold of the temple here,
Now, bowed before its inmost altar there;
With what strange joy the conqueror upward rode,
To worship, reverent, at the throne of God!
That fell from thee, on many a prophet rest;
Thy trumpet voice still sound the loud alarm,
Thy magic notes linger, to rouse and charm,
And, Heaven's high heralds, Heaven's high service done,
Achieve the honors, brother, thou hast won.
GARDNER COLBY.
The Legislature of Maine changed the title of Waterville College to that of Colby University, January 23d, 1867, in honor of Gardner Colby, of Newton, Massachusetts, who contributed $50,000 towards its endowment, and afterwards increased the amount by a bequest of $120,000.
As glows the light behind the western hill
When towering summits hide the vanished sun,
And the long course of weary day is run;
The disk concealed, the brightness backward turns,—
For other lands the same full radiance burns.
A noble life, cut off, still journeys on,—
A trail of light behind it,—when 't is gone,—
And life before,—a faithful life's reward,—
A joy to earth,—and ever with the Lord!
Unveiled at last, life's doubt and mystery:
What fields thy works have blessed; what conquests, won,
Attest the worthy deeds thy hands have done;
What hungry mouths thy willing love has fed;
What souls enjoyed, through thee, the living Bread;
To what rich seeds thy life has given wings,—
Sheaves for the garner of the King of kings;
What halls of learning, fostered by thy care,
Have nurtured men whose lips are trained to bear
To nations born, and nations yet to be,
Tidings of life and immortality.
Caring no more for earth or earthly fame?
Not for thyself we weave these honored bays,
Yet for thyself, and for the Saviour's praise.
All that was great in thee, we cherish still,
All that accorded with the Master's will;
Thousands the lessons of thy life shall read,—
The kind in word; the generous in deed;
The ready, helpful hand; the open heart;
The soul to feel; the tender tear to start;
The wealth of hand and brain to yield supply
To every worthy work, or low, or high,
Accounting nothing small which God deems great,
So prompt to act, so patient, too, to wait,
Holding of right with men an honored seat,
But laying all things at the Master's feet.
Long the foundations which he planted stand;
And grateful thousands shall with glad acclaim
Breathe from full hearts their blessings on his name.
Patient to bear, and prompt, like thee, to do;
Be ours, like thine, through grace the victory won,
And ours, like thine, the Master's glad “Well done!”
REV. ISAAC BACKUS,
ON UNVEILING A MONUMENT TO HIS MEMORY.
Where sleep the pious dead,
Supremely blest;
Their honored course is run,
The crown of victory won,
Bright as the glorious sun,
In Christ they rest.
Who once these pathways trod
In Christ's own way;
His faith as noontide clear,
He sought in holy fear
The Master's voice to hear,
And, glad, obey.
(Tribute too long delayed),
This shrine we rear;
And carve his reverend name,
Worthy immortal fame;—
His holy labors claim
Such record here.
Where rest the true and brave,
Till morn shall break;
Peaceful in Christ they sleep,
Heaven will their memory keep,
Till from their slumbers deep,
Joyful, they wake.
A LOVING BEQUEST.
On the unveiling of a portrait of a lady who devised funds for building a church at Mattapan, Massachusetts.
Loving, she lived to plant it here,
And left what love could well afford,
A noble offering to her Lord.
What her heart loved, and loved so well,—
Such holy love breathed in her breath,
Lived in her life, survived her death.
And human glory melts away,
Her gift abides in sins forgiven,
In souls redeemed, and heirs of heaven.
No act of love shall be forgot;
And Christ's approving word shall be,
She, what she could, had done for me.
MARY POND.
One in the weary past, one, yet to be;
One in this life of labor and heart-breakings,
One in the bliss of immortality.
With ever restless hands and busy brain;
All sorrow past,—no grief, no sigh, no weeping,
Like a sweet summer evening, after rain.
Questioning what may be the life to come;
She feels, in the freed spirit's glad uprising,
Joy, peace, rest, grandeur, glory, heaven, home.
Like fragrant night-winds floating gently by;
Like noiseless clouds of incense, upward wreathing,
Her spirit, silent, points us to the sky.
Created life and beauty where it fell;
Around her cherished works her spirit lingers,
Like strains of music o'er the quivering shell.
So brilliant promise clouded o'er so soon;
Faith, be thou strong; God's purpose faileth never;
Earth had the radiant morning; heaven, the noon.
Toiling and burdened through the scorching day,
But sleeps at last; and God, the great Refiner,
Saves all the gold, and melts the dross away.
Of flower-life hides within the rigid grain;
But, with the warm breath of the season vernal,
It waves luxuriant o'er the fields again.
So hides the worm within his narrow cell,
But bursts his chrysalis, and, heavenward leaping,
Shining, proclaims that God does all things well.
Knowing nor pain, nor grief, nor death, nor sin;
Rest that conveys the soul to heaven's high portal,
And bids the weary wanderer enter in.
Beyond thick clouds we cannot see the sun;
But patient, trustingly, we wait Heaven's showing,
'T is God's own hand,—thy will, O Lord, be done.
“BLIND ANNA.”
The lives we here are living are full of mystery.
How the plans of God are working, we strive in vain to tell;
But faith can safely trust Him, for He doeth all things well.
And so on every milestone we record His blessed name.
All the happy Ebenezers His love and praises tell:
His arm has never failed us; He doeth all things well.
If, blinded, through His wisdom, we only trace Him in the dark,
In the glowing, glorious noontide, or in the deepest cell,—
We will trust Him, we will love Him, for He doeth all things well.
'T is ordered by a Father who is ever good and kind.
Wait till the seal is broken; He doeth all things well.
The eye no more be sightless, no longer deaf the ear;
The day shall rise in glory,—why should the heart rebel?
God sees, and we shall see Him, for He doeth all things well.
BLOSSOMING ON THE OTHER SIDE.
A dwelling in yon glorious sphere,
Where sin is past, and labor done;
'T is better than to linger here!
A heavenly crown upon her brow,
Whose hand a harp of worship bears,
Who sings the angelic anthem now!
Thus early from earth's tempting scene;
In heaven, temptation's furious blast
Can never reach the soul again!
A seraph, to the world above,
Where endless day is round her poured,
And happy spirits dwell in love!
To mourn a tie so early riven;
She lives,—while ye are thus bereft,—
First of your household, safe in heaven!
TO A SORROWING MOTHER.
There is comfort and peace for the stricken in heart!
God has taken the spirit that basked in thy love;
The beautiful angels have borne it above.
Had fastened its roots in the soil of the tomb.
It smiled in thy garden, so gentle and fair;
It has climbed o'er the wall, and is blossoming there.
Now flashes its light in the land of the blest;
The rose is still fragrant, though torn from the stem,—
The setting is ruined, but safe is the gem.
The treasure, still thine, awaits thee above.
Be faithful, be earnest, night soon will be riven,
And the lost one of earth, be thy jewel in heaven.
AGATHA E. CLAFLIN.
Is thy sleep more sweet, dear child,
Brought from Rome's gorgeous sepulchres,
Back to thy native wild?
Or breathes the wind more gently,
Where the chestnut and the pine
Above the tomb that holds thy dust
Their clustering branches twine?
Of old imperial Rome,
That thou sighedst, midst its grandeur,
For thy dearer western home?
Those fragrant airs and sunny bowers,—
Could they not weave a spell,
With power to win, above the spot
Thy young heart loved so well?
Subdued by famine, died;
But there, with bread immortal,
Was thy spirit satisfied?
He, in his lonely prison chained,
Perished in heathen gloom;
Thou soaredst upward, free of wing,
And angels bade thee come.
Waited his heavenly crown,
And laid his armor down.
Brave Christian souls in Roman soil
Repose in holy rest,
As sinks the gorgeous, crimson sun
In glory in the west.
Of grand, historic Rome;
Thy gaze, admiring, rested
On picture, church, and dome.
Why, yearning with a tender love,
Did thine eyes look back to see
The landscape round that cherished home,
Where thy young soul longed to be?
In a city grander far
Than home, or Rome,—in heaven,—
As the sun outshines a star;
Earth on thy young eyes faded,
As fades a glittering toy,
Bright opened on thy vision
Heaven's home of love and joy.
Peace to thy precious dust!
Rest calmly with thy kindred
Till the rising of the just.
The winds shall sing above thee,
Where the chestnut and the pine,
In thy own dear native forests,
Their clustering branches twine.
Lingers around us still,
As day-beams, after sunset,
Shine, radiant, o'er the hill;
Thy loving voice, still sounding,
Forbids us to rebel,—
God gave, and God hath taken,—
God, who does all things well.
HARRIET J. WARDWELL.
To sleep 'mid the dew, and the breath of the roses,
In June,—of all seasons the sweetest and fairest,
Herself, of its blossoms the purest and rarest.
And melody breaks from earth's thousands of voices;
Like distant sweet chimes on evening winds singing,
The music she breathed is in echoes still ringing.
We bow to the mandate Jehovah has spoken;
God's promise proclaims, o'er the loved and lamented,
The silver cord, loosed, shall again be cemented.
Peace sits by her ashes,—Peace breathes round her pillow.
Like precious first fruits, an offering to Heaven!
Still trusting, still loving, we yield, broken-hearted.
Again, in the home of the blest, we shall greet her,
And youth bloom immortal, when, joyful, we meet her.
EPITAPHS.
Sweet is thy dreamless rest.
God on thy homeward spirit smiled,
And made thee early blest.
Her humble faith were given,
Like buds of promise, plucked on earth,
To bloom, transferred to heaven.
Sweet is her rest, and bright her crown, in heaven.
IN MEMORY OF A YOUNG MAIDEN.
Gentle as the summer breeze,
Pleasant as the air of evening,
When it floats among the trees.
Peaceful in the grave so low.
Thou no more wilt join our number;
Thou no more our songs shalt know.
Here thy loss we deeply feel.
But 't is God that hath bereft us;
He can all our sorrows heal.
When the day of life is fled;
Then in heaven with joy to greet thee,
Where no farewell tear is shed.
2.
Part II.
POEMS OF COUNTRY.
AMERICA.
Written February, A.D. 1832, and first sung at a Fourth of July Celebration at Boston, the same year.
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring.
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.
And ring from all the trees
Sweet Freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake,
Let all that breathe partake,
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing;
Long may our land be bright
With Freedom's holy light;
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our King.
SCHOOLS AND SCHOLARS.
SENTIMENTAL.
THE SEAL ONCE LAID ON PLIANT WAX.
ADDRESSED TO A TEACHER.
The seal, once laid on pliant wax,Stamps its own image, cancelled never;
The teacher's lineaments on the soul
Their vivid impress leave forever.
Lay careful hand on head and heart
While waits the youth at life's fair portal;
So shall your work, in beauty wrought,
Be beauty, stamped with life immortal.
NOTHING WITHOUT EFFORT.
As weeds grow, untilled, from the generous soil;
You guess men in black, with the cheerfullest air,
Eat bread without work, and live without care;
So happy they float, like clouds in the blue,
You think, very likely, they 've nothing to do
While the hand of the workman is sore his bruises.
But no farmer grows rich who sets up for a shirk,
Nor merchant, whose aim is to live without work;
There is labor more wearing than digging a drain,—
Oh, that some men would try it,—'t is work with the brain!
Springs not with a gush before one can know it,
As breaks from the fountain the tinkling rill
And flows from the side to the foot of the hill.
The thought, born to shine in his beautiful strain,
Lies, like gems to be cut, in the depth of his brain;
But to clothe it with beauty, to point it with wit,
To fit to each line a shaft that will hit,—
To gather the glories, his lay to enfold,
From earth, air, and sea, from the crimson and gold,
That glow in the path of the opening day,
Or burnish the sky as the light fades away,—
Is never the work of a glance and a dash,
As the fluid-electric shoots out with a flash;—
The search for a jingle, the chase for a rhyme,
Is a toil to the brain, and the labor of time.
As a steamer,—the monster,—caught fast in the narrows,
Or striving, in summer, to pass over shallows,
Drives fierce on her pathway, ascending the stream,
But is forced to fall back with a shock and a scream,
To try a fresh channel, to make a new tack,
Still foiled in her efforts, still doomed to push back,
Till at last, as if borne by a freak of good chance,
She floats o'er the shoal, and shoots, with a glance,
Where balmy winds kiss her, and navies might ride,—
So, often, the poet, intent on his chime,
Seeks, earnest, to match some choice word with a rhyme;
But bootless his efforts,—his search all in vain,—
He backs off from the shallow and tries a new strain,
Gives up the dear word on which swung his fine thought,
Abandons the rhyme, long chased, but ne'er caught,
Creeps back through the shallows,—recasts his whole plan,
And, foiled where he wishes, he sails where he can,
Then floats, proud in success, o'er the glorious main,
Till the rhyme-search shall ground him in shallows again.
O wisdom of Virgil!—the bard of the ages,—
A wisdom well worthy of prophets and sages,
No genius, untoiling, to glory is whirled;
“A line in a day” brings the praise of the world.
WHERE ARE THE BOYS OF EARLIER YEARS?
“THE BOYS.”
Once known and loved so well?
Where childhood's hopes and childhood's fears,
O Muse of history, tell?
In wild joy on the air?
Where are the lips, in love which spoke—
The echoes answer, Where?
That made our greetings sweet?
Parted long since,—the choice old band,—
Where will they ever meet?
White hairs, and furrowed brow;
The veterans, with their antique grace—
The boys are elders now.
Nor count each passing year;
Behold, their bows in strength abide,
The ancient boys are here!
THE LADY AND THE POET.
The spirit of music in beautiful Spain;
He was urged by a lady, not quite to his taste,
To write her a sonnet,—nor urged she in vain.
From a madrigal down to a funeral knell;
So this son of the Muses proceeded to draw
The sonnet she claimed from his murmuring shell.
Her form, and her hair, and form her dark Spanish eyes;
And her fancy was filled with the glow of his lays,
Lighted up like the rainbow with heavenly dyes.
Was allowed by the minstrel to smile on his page,
Not a breath of true gallantry breathed from his lip,
Not a soft note of grace warbled forth from his cage.
Of making the sonnet, in measure and time,
As smooth as an eclogue, as bald as a stone,
And as empty of meaning as faultless in rhyme.
The lines were as faultless as eye ever read;
The sonnet was perfect, excepting alone,—
'T was just what he purposed,—that nothing was said.
HOW BLEST THE ART THAT LINKS IN SACRED BONDS.
PRESERVED THOUGHTS.
The living present with the living past!
The life of other years to ours responds,
Pulse-beat to pulse-beat thrills, and first to last.
Treasured in faithful records, sound again;
Genius and love their harmonies prolong,
And vanished souls converse again with men.
Like rare and priceless gems, the sacred trust,
When monumental piles and shrine of gold,
Battered and worn, shall crumble into dust.
When, passed from earth, the glorious thinkers sleep,—
Their thoughts, like jewels rescued from decay,
In fitting chambers to arrange and keep?
Thank God! such trusts shall not be given in vain;
Earth's clustered blooms will show fair fruit in heaven,
Thoughts, saved on earth, will shine in heaven again.
Life's loving work and influence to extend,
Clothing the mortal with immortal powers,
Making all ages with all ages blend!
THE GENTLE MUSE OF TO-DAY.
They numbered barely nine,—
'T was theirs to wake the sweetest lays,
To charm and to refine;
To make the whole world bright,
Ten thousand rills of joy to start,
To shine, as shines the light.
A hundred Muses more;
And on each gentle Muse we meet,
Our love and praise we pour;
Each makes earth happier, life more blest,
Brings to our homes a heaven,—
Dear charmers of our secret hearts,
The best gift God has given!
The fields already won;
And in their noble deeds surpass
All that the past has done;
By pinnacles of honor gained,
By summits grandly trod,
They prove what woman can attain,
Inspired and helped of God.
And gladly, proudly, raise
The noblest trophy art can bring
Their glorious course to praise;
A thousand blessings on them rest,—
Blessings from heart and hand,—
The Muses we delight to own,
They are this fairy band.
ANNIVERSARIES AND DEDICATIONS.
COME TO THE FESTAL DAY.
A HYMN FOR A SCHOOL ANNIVERSARY.
Cheerfully welcomed, come!
Come join our songs; come share the joy
That crowns our school and home!
Treasures of holy truth,—
God's living words,—the helps of age,
The loving guides of youth.
With bursting buds and flowers,
Summons the sower to his toils,
And gladdens us in ours!
No work for God is vain:
His is alike the beaming sun,
And His the gentle rain.
And cheerful greetings, come!
Come join our songs; come share the joy
That crowns our school and home!
IN LOVING FAITH THIS STONE WE PLACE.
LAYING THE CORNER-STONE, NORUMBEGA, WELLESLEY COLLEGE.
God is our trust,—in Him we build;
All noble works through Him are wrought,
All life is with His pulse-beat thrilled.
Our breath, our joy, our hope, our aim,—
We plant our corner-stone, we rear
Our home, in honor of Thy name!
As wall, and tower, and peak ascend;
And be its crown of glory, Thou,—
Earth's noblest hope, life's highest end,
Forest and vale, and hill and sea,—
Reveal Thy wondrous skill and power;
All space, all time, are full of Thee.
The house we to Thy honor raise,
Be a new temple built for God,—
Forever vocal with His praise.
IN FAITH THIS CORNER-STONE WE LAY.
FOR THE CORNER-STONE LAYING, WORCESTER ACADEMY, 1889.
A tribute to fair Learning's shrine;
God is our wisdom, God our stay,
And His the work our thoughts design.
For generations yet to be;
As every soul its structure rears
And builds for immortality.
To love the paths their fathers trod,
To keep the boon their fathers gained,
To love and trust their fathers' God.
And arch, and dome, and towers shall rise,
As, slowly, works of love below
Tend to bright mansions in the skies.
NOT YET COMPLETE,—THE HALL WE REAR.
AN UNFINISHED MAIN BUILDING.
O Learning, to thy shrine;
Not yet complete,—our character,
To match the mould divine.
As stone on stone we raise,—
A finished temple shall become,
Built for Jehovah's praise.
Like marble from the mine,
Polished, and set,—a perfect whole,—
In holy beauty shine.
Point upward to the skies,
O living souls, grandly aspire
To shine in Paradise!
HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A SCHOOL-HOUSE.
The seeds of love and light,
And train your sons and daughters
To wisdom, truth, and right;
Open fresh founts of beauty
Along life's devious road;
Fashion the soul to duty,
And lead it up to God.
Where opening minds shall wake,
As rosebuds into flowers
In blushing fragrance break;
Water with skilful teaching
The springing germs of thought,
Onward and heavenward reaching,
With coming glory fraught.
To keep this high behest,
We take the charge appointed,
To do such bidding blest;
Here shall new gems be fitted
With mild, fair light to shine,
The toil to us committed,
The help, O God, is Thine.
FAIR SEAT OF LEARNING! WHO SHALL TELL.
JUBILEE HYMN FOR MOUNT HOLYOKE SEMINARY, JUNE 23, 1887.
The joy we feel in greeting thee
On this glad day, thy festal day,
Thy blessed day of jubilee!
What grateful throngs repeat thy name!
What memories, lingering round the globe,
With fervent blessing crown thy fame!
To Him to whom all praise is due;
With loyal homage pay your vows,
In loyal faith your vows renew.
The years elapsed, the years to be;
For His dear sake, in His great name,
We keep our hallowed Jubilee.
FAIR WORCESTER.
With the city-domes gleaming below,
A gem on the robe of a beautiful bride,
Or a crown on a beautiful brow,
Thy children return to thy favorite halls,
With more joy than the hom-flying dove;
Their hearts burn with gladness to answer thy calls,
As they bring thee their tribute of love.
To our hearts what fond memories throng;
From thy chalice we drank the rich draughts of truth,
And our souls through thy strength were made strong.
No landscape was ever so fair to be seen;
No such sunsets crowned day's busy hours;
No friends like the friends of our boyhood have been,
And no teachers so gracious as ours.
Their bright names on the wreath of thy fame;
To guard thee and guide thee, around thee has waved
God's broad pillar of cloud and of flame.
Still onward and upward pursue thy fair march,
Like an army with banners unfurled;
While God bends above thee His covenant arch,
And before thee lies waiting the world.
FAIR SUFFIELD, THY CHILDREN RETURN TO THY HALLS.
FAIR SUFFIELD.
As the birdlings fly back to their nest,
Delighted to welcome thy motherly calls,
And to lean as of old on thy breast;
Whatever our lot in the future may be,
And wherever our footsteps may roam,
Our hearts shall still turn with affection to thee,
And shall find in thy bosom a home.
What ambitions thy teachings have fired!
The light of those teachings no years can eclipse,
Nor imperil the love they inspired;
Thy light has shone far o'er the darkness of earth,
Like the sunbeams that break from the sky;
Thy prophets and heroes have honored their birth,
And their record stands written on high.
Be thy glorious banner unfurled;
There draw every eye like a beautiful bride,
And bring blessing and joy to the world!
The God of our fathers establish thy state,
And His pillar of cloud and of flame
Defend thee and guide thee while thousands shall wait
To be honored and called by thy name!
RE-UNIONS.
HYMN
FOR THE REUNION OF ALUMNI OF NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION AT SARATOGA SPRINGS, MAY, 1885.
Alike in shade or sun,
Each throbbing heart and beating pulse
Beats as the pulse of one.
Bind us in trust and love;
They make us one,—one band on earth,—
One here, and one above.
The thoughts of every soul;
One aim, one Christly aim, makes one
The labors of the whole.
And cheers our pilgrim way;
We see afar our crown, to grace
Christ's coronation day.
In trial, zeal, and pain,
Redeemed, shall find one home, at last,
In Christ be one again.
HYMN FOR NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION.
What hosts, in converse sweet,
These paths have trod;
What hosts have loved and prayed,
And on Heaven's altar laid
Their all, amid thy shades,
O mount of God!
Breathes, moves, one kindred soul,
Our life, the same.
Our hopes, our aims, are one;
Christ is our central sun,
And all our works are done
In His dear name.
“Go, preach my saving word,”
Here, Lord, are we;
Each in his chosen sphere,
Ready the cross to rear,
Answers, in accents clear,
“Here, Lord, send me.”
Saviour, Thy sceptre take,
Assume Thy throne;
Armed with the prophet's rod,
Thy servants wait thy nod,
God over all, our God,
Come, reign, alone!
A SONG OF “LANG SYNE.”
FOR THE CLASS OF 1829.
And slanting suns decline,
How bright the hour that gathers here
The Class of '29!
Old friendships, hallowed, twine;
Blest be the ties that join in love
The Class of '29!
Secant, and curve, and sine,
Logic and Latin, that imbued
The Class of '29.
Anacreon's love and wine,
And modern lore, that came t' adorn
The Class of '29.
Now age hangs out its sign;
But nobler grows the fame which wreathes
The Class of '29.
Like brothers, still combine,
Till not a name, unstarred, shall mark
The Class of '29.
NOT YET THE FROST OF AGE.
HARVARD CLASS OF '29.
Nor ardent summer's rage,
Nor history's burdened page
Has chilled or scorched the friendships of our youth;
Nor with a “finis” ended,
Life's stories, vaguely blended,
Which years have comprehended,
Are closed and bound and sealed with changeless truth!
Our eyes look gravely back
Along the lengthening track,
Far to our sunny morn and booming spring;
When with our sails inflated,
Time's mingled cup untasted,
On the fair verge we waited,
And gazed intent, to see what life would bring.
The dear and noble-hearted,
With whom the race we started,—
Like weary steeds, we watch the setting sun;
Climbed are the heights we sought,
Our manhood's deeds are wrought,
Our battles sternly fought,
Favored by God's good grace, and victory won.
Still the young blood returns,
Just as the summer ferns
Are green and strong till falls the autumn blast;
So to the clouds of even,
Grouped in the glittering heaven,
Ever new glow is given,
And never are they brighter than at last.
From heaven new voices call;
We claim them each and all,—
The starred that shone, the unstarred names that shine.
Oh, fewer still, and fewer,
But never, never truer,
Just as when life was newer,—
God keep the unstarred names of “twenty-nine!”
'MID THE TEMPEST AND THE STRIFE.
HARVARD CLASS OF '29.
With stern heart and ready hand,
As when amid the conflict dire
Embattled legions stand,
In a world where bounding joy
Comes alternately with tears,
As night dews follow noontide heat,—
We have finished fifty years.
When, with brilliant hopes and young,
We launched our bark on life's bright sea,
And wooed the siren's tongue,
And the future, calm and fair,
Stood undimmed by rising fears;
Alas, our hearts had yet to learn
The scenes of fifty years!
Ever up and onward led,
The joy of freedom round us cast,
Its light above our head,
As shouts the pilgrim from the height
The towering mountain rears,—
So on the summit gained, we stand;
We have finished fifty years.
The path our steps have trod,
And, yearning, seek to press again
With loving feet the sod,
And busy memory to our souls
The fragrant past endears;
Yet comes that benison no more,—
We have finished fifty years.
And verdure o'er it creeps,
And clings in every nook and seam,
And in silent beauty sleeps,—
So round our manhood's heart
The bloom of youth appears;
Age nurtures these sweet-trailing flowers,—
We have finished fifty years.
But our friendship, warm and true,
Unchanging, mocks the lapse of time,
Like heaven's immortal blue.
The radiant arch still smiles;
And while faith the portal nears,
Our love outrides the storms of life,—
The gales of fifty years.
With a firm heart and a brave,
Strong to endure each adverse shock,
To breast each beating wave,
And light the crested foam with joy,
Howe'er the tempest veers,
Till storm and conflict, lulled, repose
Beyond these mortal years.
Founded on the fact that the members of the Class of 1829, with two or three exceptions only, are understood to be just fifty years of age.
TRIBUTES.
TO MR. SETH DAVIS, SCHOOL-MASTER.
ON HIS ONE HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY.
Before thy hundred years, we, reverent, bend;
Distinguished praises for thy well-earned fame
Our lips would speak, our grateful thought would frame.
Distinguished man, whose deeds, so bravely done,
Have charmed and blessed, in turn, both sire and son;
Lone pillar, thou, amid the wastes of years,
The sole survivor of their joys and tears;
Whose like our eyes will ne'er behold again,
Grand and alone,—a monument of men.
Rich in the circle of thy hundred years,
Whose eye, undimmed, has seen the months decay,
While generations thrice have passed away;
Skilful to teach, kind and discreet to guide,
Keen to discern, and honest to decide,
Acute to plan, and earnest to defend;
If e'er a foe in seeming, still a friend,
Training thy pupils to be good and wise.
Goodness lives ever; wisdom never dies.
Thy teaching made them men, both good and great,
Fitted to hold and grace the chair of state;
But greatest in the goodness of the heart;
As fruits that ripen 'neath the genial sun,
Beauty and richness yield, combined in one.
The citizen, the patriot, and the sage;
Blessed with an eye to see, a hand to do,
A heart to throb, a soul both large and true;
Man of the present, treasury of the past,—
How has thy life been honored to the last!
Of old traditions, thou, a matchless store,
A walking volume of historic lore;
Lover of Nature in its varied moods,
Its brooks and flowers, its fields and leafy woods,
A thousand trees, set by thy loving care,
Attest thy taste and toil, which placed them there.
One tall old tree—the monarch of the band—
Towers upward, all alone, in lofty pride,
While generations, nourished at its side
In gentle summer and in winter drear,
Have grown and fallen with every passing year,—
Each season crowns it with luxuriant leaves,
Each autumn round it some fresh glory weaves,
And twittering birds and sunbeams o'er it play,
While the old monarch suffers no decay.
As setting suns their glowing colors blend,
Peacefully fading towards the darkening west,
Sinking serenely to their destined rest,
Prophetic of a new and brighter day,
When years and centuries shall have passed away!
THE DEPARTED TEACHER.
Merged in the morning radiance, dies,
But holds, unseen, its onward way,
And walks in glory through the skies.
Like priests around their altar-fires,
Quenched, but not lost, a living light,
Are watching still, though night retires.
Sinks, weary, 'neath the darkening west,
But tho' his daily race is run,
New worlds are by his presence blest.
Lies sleeping 'neath the wintry snow;
But richer fruits spring from the tomb,
From dark decay fair harvest grow.
Lives beyond life, he cannot die;
Born for all years, for every clime,
His a true immortality.
Our brethren with the garnered host,
While gratefully the ages say,
No saintly life is ever lost.
Taken, alas! yet doubly given;
His life undimmed, its pathway keeps—
One course alike in earth and heaven.
REQUIEM.
We are passing, one by one,
Like soldiers, fallen in battle,
Be the conflict lost or won.
Another,—yes, another,
Like an evening star, has set;
Behind the western mountains
The light is lingering yet.
The friends of earlier days,
As melt the mists of morning
Amid the noonday haze,
Life's golden harvests, gathered,
Pass on to other spheres;
Life's early promise kindled
Light round their riper years.
As ever on the lake
Wave follows wave, and shoreward
Successive billows break;
When, all the conflict o'er,
In gentle ripples moving,
They lave the silent shore.
Torn from the golden chain,
Crowned, after life's stern conflict,
Another warrior slain;
With closer ranks, his valor
Shall help us dare and do;
Shorter the chain, but stronger,—
We'll weld the parts anew.
We drop like forest leaves,
When the year's crown of glory
The mellow autumn weaves;
But lives of love and duty
Sink to no vain repose;
Sunsets shed lingering radiance,
Fragrance, the dying rose.
The calls more frequent grow,
As whitens round our temples
More thick the silver snow;
God of the weak and weary,
Light of our joyful past,
Guide us, support and keep us,
Till falls in death the last!
N. P. WILLIS.
Whose long weeping branches trail over the tomb;
The soil of thy birthplace prepares thee a pillow,—
Where kindled thy morn, for thy eve there is room.
In faith breathed thy name at the altar of prayer;
Come back, from thy greatness, to sleep with the lowly,
Where pride sounds no trumpet, and fame is but air.
And o'er thee her mantle deliciously flung;
Come back with thy robe of renown wrapped around thee,
To rest where thy garlands in youth o'er thee hung.
Fall back to the soil whence their beauty was born;
As sunset clouds glitter in glory supernal,
Returned from the earth which they moistened at morn.
Of fame, early won, the record illume;
As chaplets of love, made sempervirescent,
Are saved from the night and the damps of the tomb.
Whose pitiless scythe spares nor manhood nor bloom;
Come back to be buried, O lone, silent sleeper,
Thy kindred await thee,—come, pilgrim, come home.
Mr. Willis was born in Portland, passed his early days in Boston, died at Idlewild, N. Y., Jan. 20, 1867, and came back to be buried in Mt. Auburn, Jan. 24.
EDWARD EVERETT.
On whose sweet accents crowds, admiring, hung,—
Whose fitting words in heavenly beauty fell
On ear and heart, that owned the witching spell;
Whose graceful cadence tides of feeling woke,
As if on earth some loving angel spoke,—
Now rests in silence, like a harp unstrung.
Its notes, unrivalled, on the breezes flung,
Still breathe in living echoes in the air,
As though the master-spirit lingered there.
Who can do justice to so great a name?
Who speak in worthy words his matchless fame?
In varied learning brilliant and profound;
In taste a model, and in judgment sound;
Above ambition's mean and shuffling arts;
Too great to purchase power at public marts;
In life so pure, in motive so unstained,—
He trod with honor all the heights he gained;
His aims so worthy, and his powers so rare,
If first he stood, the people placed him there.
As stands a shaft on some far-reaching plain,
Rising o'er cottage-roofs and waving grain,
And latest splendor of the evening beams,
Towering o'er all, it meets the distant sight,
And bathes its summit in the peerless light,—
So, in his country, in his age, alone,
As in the earlier times great Washington;
When foemen trod the stage with haughty stride,
He for his country spoke with manly pride,
Consoled the timid, made the fainting strong,
Stood for the right, and frowned upon the wrong.
As some brave soldier waves his flag on high,
And points his comrades on, to do or die,
Then plants the banner on the topmost height,
Borne through the fiercest whirlwind of the fight,
Himself forgetting, eager but to see
His nation's struggle crowned by victory,—
So toiled in love, so stood, till evening set,
The ripe, the brave, immortal Everett.
Adorn the places where his life had been,
And garlands deck, with sweet and cheerful bloom,
The opening gateway to his honored tomb.
The full-blown flowers, of pure and spotless white,
Symbols of finished life, a life upright;
The bursting buds, of fresh and bright renown,
Wreathed o'er his name, like an immortal crown,—
Each fragrant blossom round the good and brave,
Telling how virtue lives beyond the grave.
The martial dirge, with deep and solemn strain,
Fell on the ear as falls the gentle rain,
Breathing o'er troubled hearts a healing balm;
While mingling organ-notes prolonged the psalm,
As if the twofold music had been given,
Symbol of closing earth and opening heaven.
Thus when the good man parts from earth and time.
Soaring from toil and pain to joys sublime,
Melts in the splendor of ecstatic bliss;
The mortal, like the setting sunlight, fades,
While glorious visions rise that know no shades;
And earthly music, as the soul ascends,
Dies on the ear, and with the angelic concert blends.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
IN MEMORIAM.
How shall we breathe the word, “Farewell”?
How shall we touch the trembling wire,
Which vibrates with thy mystic spell?
The evening sky without the sun;
The setting, not the gem, is left;
The frame remains, the picture gone.
Unseen, the air with music fill,—
Singing, they soar, and, soaring, sing,—
Thy broken harp yields music still.
But love still holds thy cherished name;
No sunset thine, but fadeless noon;
No shadow, but immortal fame.
For God's safe-keeping, in the tomb;
And, in firm faith and hope, we bide
The dawn that breaks the silent gloom.
The precious form, enshrined in clay,
Instinct with new-created power,
Shall wake, and heaven-ward soar away.
CIVIC INTERESTS AND OCCASIONS.
THE WORLD'S NEED.
The world waits for workmen, the brave and the true.
Go, work in all fields, and toil while you may,—
The world waits your coming; there 's something to do.
Be strong in the conflict, be brave in the strife!
There 's a crown for the good and joy for the brave
Whom toil cannot conquer, nor pleasure enslave,—
That joy, may you taste; that crown, may it shine
On each glorified brow with a lustre divine.
TRUE GREATNESS.
Who knows its secret drifts?
Bright and mysterious as the light,
Shot from the cloudland rifts?
Whose life, in splendid blazonry,
Shall find immortal fame;
Who, 'mid the wreck of quaking worlds,
Shall wear a deathless name?
Statue, nor marble bust,
Arrest oblivion, and preserve
The frame from kindred dust;
Yet how shall human spirits shine,
As shines the sparkling gem,
And, fadeless, glow like glorious stars
In night's fair diadem?
No wealth of skill nor pen,
No grain-fields of the widening West,
Avail to build true men;
No genius, born of earthly germs,
No haughty, base desire,
But nobler breath, imbreathed of God,
Wakes in the soul new fire.
O wondrous end of man!
O theme, with curious questions rife,
With God's divinest plan,—
Plan which no human mind can reach,
No human tongue can tell;
Too deep for angel's speech or thought,
Boundless, ineffable.
Become the mighty tree?
How grows the infant spark of thought,
Broader than land and sea?
The mighty oak its crumbling boughs
Back to earth's bosom gives;
But ages come, and ages pass,—
Mind, still expanding, lives.
What greatness, won by toil,
E'en as the farmer's golden corn
Grows from the deep-worked soil!
Spoil not thy soul with nerveless aim,
With idle, weak desire;
Strive nobly for a noble name,—
To all high deeds aspire.
Refined by fierce heat, flows;
As from the sculptor's dust and grime
The chiselled wonder grows,—
So, from earth's friction, toil and grief
Bring beauty, love, and truth,
Garments of praise for ripened days,
The light and crown of youth.
Who pleasure's goblet drain,
And fondly hope by idle wish
Life's high rewards to gain;
Like some bright, beauteous bird whose wing
Is torn, or clipped, or bound,
And his rich dyes he vainly trails
Along the dusty ground.
O'er distant climes and isles,
The merchant drives with eager haste,
And heap on heap he piles;
Like sand-hills on the wave-washed shore,
Like clouds of drifting spray,
Like mole-hills in the ploughman's path,
His treasures melt away.
Plumed o'er new heights to soar,
And waves aloft his potent wand
O'er subject sea and shore,—
Nurse thy fair bubble, man of pride,
Thyself, thy mighty care,
Reach forth for other worlds to rule,
And grasp,—but empty air.
The expected crown, his life;
Muscle and bone, and blood and nerve,
Tense with the eager strife;
O bootless task, such wreath to win!
Triumph, alas, how brief!
His valor, nought but force of limb;
His crown, a fading leaf.
Of deeds his bravery wrought,
Of rights secured, of wrongs redrest,
Of battles grandly fought,—
The warrior, with his sword unsheathed,
Cries, “Victory—or—death!”
How soon his vaunted glory pales,—
Brief as a passing breath.
Tossed on the billowy foam,—
Hope vainly lures the explorer on,
With tireless zeal to roam.
Perchance, he finds nor sea nor land;
The phantom onward leads:
The fame, the wealth, the rest he seeks,
False to his hopes, recedes.
Nor birth, nor regal state,
Nor palace tall, nor acres wide
Make him who holds them great;
But wisdom, grace, and knowledge broad,
A great and noble soul,
And God's blest image, God's high thought,
Stamped grandly on the whole.
From this world's useless straw!
Who rules his life, he rules the end,—
'T is Nature's changeless law.
Oh, blest the man, supremely blest,
Whose life sublimely flows,
And God's approving sentence sheds
A halo round its close!
Offspring of God's great thought;
O man, for lofty aims designed,
For noble purpose wrought,—
Build not on Time's illusive sands
The pillar of thy fame,
But high, on monuments unseen,
Carve an immortal name.
Whiten the world's broad face!
A sickle waits each willing hand,
Each heart God's helping grace;
No seed is lost, no precious grain
To earth can, useless, fall.
God guards the reapers and the seed;
His love shall garner all.
WOMEN'S RIGHTS.
They discuss it every May,
With all their wit and learning;
And renew it in October,—
Dames, strong-minded, and men, sober,
Stupid souls, and souls discerning.
To the tittle of an ounce,
For our wives, and for some prim men,
The number, weight, and measure
Of that rich and precious treasure,—
The rights, to wit, of women.
But I'll say it for a song,—
Their right is to promote us
From bachelors to men,
To excel us with the pen,
But never to outvote us.
Woman great or woman small,—
Such majorities might aid her,
That the lords of this creation
Would lose their right and station,
And their claim to run the nation,
From zenith down to nadir.
Of this weary, toiling life,
To be gentle, loving, sweet,
And receive from us, the strong,—
Be the struggle brief or long,—
Shelter 'mid the dust and heat.
To calm the fevered brain,
Kind as the gentle rain
Or summer dew;
And to find in us relief
In days of toil and grief,—
Like them, patient, mild, and true.
To be witty, brave, and bright,
In repartee to shine;
Better than sparkling toys,
To be mothers to our boys,
Famed for quiet or for noise,
Be the youngsters one or nine.
Their glory and their fame,
Not for foreign joys to roam;
But to break the clouds of sadness,
To strew earth's paths with gladness,
To be the sunlight of the home.
With tender heart and hand,
And to watch beside the bed,
And down the opening skies,
Like gleams from Paradise,
Heaven's light is round them shed.
To be found, all meekly kneeling,
Before the throne of prayer.
'T is there they find their power,—
Grace is their richest dower;
Their dearest rights are there.
One right,—for their dear sake,—
Nor pull their power down;
Theirs to strew the earth with good,
As earth's lords never could,
And then wear Heaven's crown.
Say we it in prose, or song!
'T is our pleasure to promote them
To the headship of our table,
To whatever good we 're able;
But we always will outvote them.
DEDICATION HYMN.
CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, BOSTON, JANUARY 21, 1892.
The work of human hands
And human will;
Here, where the rippling wave
The sea-sands used to lave,
Soar towers and architrave,
Beauty and skill.
With wisdom, grace, and wit,
The state to bless;
Here land shall speak to land,
And hand be clasped in hand,
And noblest deeds be planned,
In righteousness.
O'er all the paths we tread;
Truth guide our way:
While patriot sire and son
Bends to the work begun,
And new successes, won,
Shall crown the day.
God of the land and sea,
These towers we raise;
Establish here Thy throne;
Rule in all hearts alone;
Thy sovereign right we own,
Thy name we praise!
FOR THE DINNER OF THE FIRST CITY GOVERNMENT OF NEWTON, MASS.
BOSTON, FRIDAY, JANUARY 1, 1886.
And you wish for my rhymes as the pay for your flattery;
I own it accords with the ways of society,
And humbly I yield to the laws of propriety.
Not Republican, Mugwump, or pure Democratical;
My calling is not to discussions political,
Nor yours, at a banquet, to be sharply critical.
With aldermen, mayor, common council, and all of that,
Was better than marring the town and dividing it,
Or trotting some hobby out boldly and riding it,—
Making twain what is one by right systematical,
And calling that two which is one, geographical.
For praising it, people may charge us with vanity;
Not praising it, people would call it—insanity.
Our city régime was not sour grapes, pendulous;
But clusters, the fairest, of these we were emulous.
The young city, launched, like a ship on the sea to sail,
Was manned by a crew whose lot never should be to fail;
'T were useless to take up the business of varnishing.
My verse is sincere and hearty in praising them;
The people were wise to such office in raising them.
Fair city! they struck for success in beginning it,
And with every new year their successors are winning it.
It is just to speak well of the people who merit it;
Their praise, it is fair that their sons should inherit it.
They were temperate men, never charged with ebriety,
Whose walk, like a deacon's, was marked by sobriety;
Not ruled by some party end, blindly and slavishly,
Not planning, and fencing, and junketing knavishly;
Not famed, in debate, for their fluent loquacity,
Not noted, in contracts, for grasping rapacity;
Not eager to seek entertainments aquatical;
Not puffed, like balloons, with soaring ecstatical;
Not privily chasing some shadow they 're driving at,
And blind to foresee the ends they 're arriving at;
With their fame nibbled thin, by their secret chicanery,
Like fair ears of corn by a mouse in the granary;
Above playing fast, playing loose with their politics,
Like lobbyists, zealously plying their jolly tricks:
The men for the times,—and the times were a rarity,—
The times and the men were a wonderful parity.
Expenses, 't is true, in the ledger are debited,
But good things unnumbered, per contra, are credited.
So the first city fathers, we'll not rate them badly, sir,
But praise them, and toast them, and honor them gladly, sir.
Your power, good sirs, is a thing of the preterite,
If you did not rule well, 't is too late to better it;
Still, government measures are often a mystery,
But, foolish, or wise,—one year makes them history.
The shades of the fathers are seen grimly stalking past,
Peering here, peering there, with their ancient eyes critical,
Charging this, charging that, as new-fangled, or mystical.
They list to the sound of our steam-engines, clattering;
They hear, in our fountains, the bright water pattering,
They see, in our grounds, fruits and flowers exotical,
And brand our new schemes as insane or quixotical;
Deem some things we do proofs of maddest audacity,
And some,—they must own,—showing highest capacity;
Accusing our speeches of bombast and platitude,
As if lack of depth could be made up in latitude.
O shades of the fathers, suspend your opinions, do,
Or hasten away to your silent dominions, do!
You judge Time's inventions amiss, from not knowing them,
Like men who judge fruits from the seeds, without sowing them;
We know these new things are too good to dispute on, sirs,
And we 're proud of the first city fathers of Newton, sirs.
SACRED, O GOD, TO THEE.
This home of ours,
Its sunny slopes and fields,
Its peaceful bowers;
Sacred, O God, to Thee,
Thine may it ever be,—
Both Thine and ours.
To lisp Thy praise;
Here infant hearts grow strong
In wisdom's ways;
All that is evil spurn,
For all true goodness yearn,—
All to Thy praise.
On those whose love
Opened this rural home,
Garden, and grove;
As all the good are blest,
Thy blessing on them rest,
Heaven and love.
Springs a bright June;
After a brief eclipse,
Shines the full moon;
After earth's twilight ray,
Be ours a peaceful day,—
Heaven's glorious noon.
THE CONSECRATION OF A CEMETERY.
Written June 6, 1857, for the dedication of Newton Cemetery; also sung at dedication of Rose Hill Cemetery, Chicago, Ill.
The slumbering dead shall lie,
Tranquil as summer evening fades
Along the western sky.
To lull their deep repose,—
Like music on the dewy air,
Like nightfall on the rose.
Its calm and cheerful ray,
As hope springs from the dying bed
And points to perfect day.
The fairest, freshest flowers,—
Emblem of heaven's eternal spring,
And brighter lands than ours.
In soft repose shall lie,
Like garnered seed in holy trust
For immortality.
Its glories shall restore,
And on the silent sleepers dawn
The day that fades no more.
CHANGE AND WORK.
PROEM.
With the banner of freedom above my head waving,
And sang of the bliss which true liberty gives,
And praised the brave men who our blessings are saving,
And calmly invited my bark to surrender,
With broadsides of compliments, such as you hear,
When the borrower comes to pay court to the lender.
Or in terms of excuse to beseech him for quarter;
What landsman would venture to parry with words,
The shots of an iron-clad craft of the water?
Or gun-boats or monitors, frigates or brigs.
My bark to his mercy, I chose to surrender,—
“Lady Muse” is her name; of course he'll defend her.
I could n't refuse it, you good-natured Turk;
You 're a despot of learning, and in power to-day;
So be absolute monarch, and have your own way!
POEM.
In country and city, in village and mart;
In trade and mechanics, on land and on sea;
In climes ruled by despots, or ruled by the free;
Where flashes the flame of war's lurid glare;
Where wave the sweet banners of peace on the air;
In tropical heat, in the teeth of the cold,
With the youthful and fair, the wrinkled and old;
In circles polite, with the rough honest seamen;
In London, Berlin, Caffreland, and Van Dieman,—
It reigns over all, with a merciless sceptre,
Since Eve took the fruit,—O, had Adam but kept her,
Through grace, this great tyrant one triumph had lost,
And Earth's first temptation no sorrow had cost.
No force can resist, no fetters can bind it;
No genius of man can command it away;
No strength but must bow, its nod to obey;
No bribe, no condition, can limit the range
Of that power despotic, ubiquitous,—Change!
Without it would toothache be toothache forever.
It rouses, but calms, the wild billows at sea;
It gathers the storm, but compels it to flee;
Wakes daylight from gloom, and purples each ray
That beams in the west at the setting of day;
Spreads earth in the spring with a mantle of pride;
And whitens and jewels it o'er like a bride,
When the nuts have been cracked by the frosts of October,
And beauty autumnal, grown silent and sober,
Wrought to hide like a pall, the triumph of Change!
We praise what endures; yet, with attitude meek,
A change of condition we anxiously woo,—
Convinced 't will be better, if only 't is new.
And stands by the side of his grandmother gray,
To see the new volume of pictures just bought,
Of things never seen and of battles ne'er fought,
To turn every leaf, with the hastiest kiss,
In love with the next, impatient of this;
The glance of an instant, enough for his brain;
The scenery must then be shifted again.
The child, like a mirror, reflects but the man,—
Two sizes worked out on the very same plan.
Despises the slow-growing wealth of the soil;
Aspires to be rich in a day without work,
To eat like an alderman, smoke like a Turk.
Leaving turnips and hay, he sells buttons and braid.
He stocks a fine store, plays gymnastics in trade;
Talks wisely of tariffs and duties and laces,
Of cases of goods, and of fraudulent cases;
Drives a fine, fancy horse, buys a costly piano,
And frowns if they say his wealth smells of guano;
Consumes in one year what he gathered in ten,
And must climb from the foot of the ladder again.
Have money in plenty, to use and to lend;
Take his wife to the mountains, the sea or the springs;
Wear broadcloth the finest, and costliest rings;
And live, dainty soul, untroubled by care,
In fashion recherché, a life without labor,
Assured of success, like some fortunate neighbor;—
But no farmer grows rich who sets up for a shirk,
Or aims, when turned merchant, to live without work.
The self-styled élite,—the American shoddy,
Raised up from the shop or the loom, in a day,
By arts reckoned honest, because “it will pay;”
But all things good and great, of human pursuit,
Are of patience and time the slow-growing fruit.
The gourd that grows swiftly, as swiftly may die;
The wealth quickly won, as quickly may fly;
The coral, reared up from the depths of the waves,
Where sea-monsters sport in their dim-lighted caves,
The effort of ages, built, grain upon grain,
Is slowly constructed, but long shall remain.
Where, hidden, it lay in its prison-like cell;
And, nurtured by sunlight, by heat, dew, and rain,
It waves on the hill, it smiles o'er the plain;
It drinks every morning the sweet-scented dew,
Still drinking, and growing, and drinking anew;
It bathes in the glory of noon-tide and even,
But slowly matures,—like mortals for heaven.
[OMITTED]
He whom pain cannot conquer, nor hardship can foil,
Grows great by endurance, grows nobler by toil;
And fragrant with good are the paths which he trod,
And grand is his rest in the bosom of God!
PATRIOTIC EXAMPLES AND INCENTIVES.
THE FATHERS AND THEIR STRUGGLES.
A TRIBUTE TO COLUMBUS.
Pressed on by every gale;
God is thy guide!
Westward, and nothing fear;
Westward, thy pathway steer,
Till some new land appear
Beyond the tide.
Led by God's pillared flame,
All sails unfurled,
The seaman trod the deck,
Fearless of storm or wreck,
When rose a distant speck,—
Lo! the new world!
Fair isles and golden stores,—
Riches unknown;
But, fairer still, to be
A land of liberty,
Reaching from sea to sea,—
Freedom's high throne.
We trace Thy mighty hand;
We own Thy power.
Here set Thy rightful throne;
Make the new world Thine own;
Rule its expanse, alone,
Forevermore.
AMERICA, THE WESTERN FLOWER.
Athwart the earth were sweeping,
And deep beneath the snowy crust
The summer flowers lay sleeping.
“Take,” said the sower to the sod,
“The seed I love and cherish;
Though bleak December, I must trust
The grain—survive or perish!”
Sent down, in furious rattle,
Its rain and sleet, its hail and snow,
Like shot and shell in battle.
Sharp was the air, and rough the soil,
The tender rootlets grew in;
And half sent up a verdant sprout,
And half was but a ruin.
A blue and crimson awning,—
Fair as the brilliant arch on high,
That canopies the dawning,
With white, the crimson edging,
The sacred soil with wavy lines,
Like ocean surges, hedging.
With heat scorched all the garden,
The awning wet with tears like dew,
Stretched by the faithful warden,
Sheltered the flower with stamens dark,
Till, morning's redness breaking,
The foe that watched the flower with hate,
Slept, and knew no awaking.
Around the nations breathing,
First in the circle of delights
The world's fair Eden wreathing,
Smiles the bright blossom, sweeter far
Than flowers of Eastern story,
Watered with tears and blood, and reared
To be a people's glory.
On Plymouth Rock descended;
And watered, when the sires and sons
Their tears and labors blended;
And scorched by drought when conflict drove
Its plough of desolation;
And waved in glory, when, like flowers,
Bloomed here, a new-born nation.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
IN MEMORY OF THEIR LANDING UPON PLYMOUTH ROCK ON THE 21st DAY OF DECEMBER, 1620.
Its broad green fields, its sunny skies,
Its tall cathedral-spires and domes,
As the first pair left Paradise.
Cold, threatening skies and frozen sod,—
Brave noble souls, resolved to seek
Deliverance from the oppressor's rod.
The altars where their fathers bowed,
Graves where their hallowed dust reclines,
The fields they reaped, the hills they ploughed.
Swept by fierce winds and savage men;
Nature's rude growth, the heathen's boast;
The rockbound shores, the wild beast's den.
Not theirs to bow to men the knee,
Unfettered as the ocean wave,—
God's freemen, whom the truth made free.
Woke, their triumphant psalms to hear,
And rocks, and hills, and distant isles
Echoed their pilgrim-hymns of cheer.
O strong in patient faith to wait!
These are the noble sires who framed
And built New England's early state.
TEA-DRINKING.
AN AMERICAN BALLAD.
From mother, Mrs. B.,
Her compliments, and ask you down,
To take a cup of tea.
To have one's friends to tea,
Ma wants to have it over with.)
Come early,—say, by three.”
A little talk, you know;
And Mrs. A. was bound to tell
Her thoughts,—just so and so.
O'er Mrs. A. to come,—
“Bring threepence with you, Mrs. A.”
“Yes, but I won't be dumb.”
“I'll speak my mind, I will!”
“You sha'n't,” said Mrs. B., “you sha'n't;
But bring the pennies still.”
Full of rare pluck and ire,
Till words, condensed, were changed to deeds,
And tea distilled in fire.
“You 're ditto, Mrs B.”
So Father Adam used to say,
Petting with Mother Eve.
I think, at last, you'll see
There 's something brewing, red as blood,
Coiled in a cup of tea.”
Long since, we well remember,
In Boston, near a famous wharf,
One still night in December.
Who lived beside the sea,
To heat the water, and prepare
A real strong cup of tea.
On Mr. Gage's arm,—
“I hope this party may not lead,”
She said, “to any harm.”
“Tea only, and no cakes!”
“I have some cake in Concord, Ma'am,
I 've stored it for your sakes.”
“Go take it, if you can!
Lord Percy, at his peril, tries,
Or any other man.”
Pray tell me, do you see,—
“Why is it, sir, that living men
Sometimes are just like tea?”
Old England's honored daughter,—”
“Because their worth is best revealed
When plunged into hot water.”
At last grew proud to own
Dear Mrs. A.,—who stoutly spurned
To bow to Britain's throne.
Who soon marched down again;
They hurried back to Boston town,
Wiser, but fewer men.
Dear Mrs. A. and B.—
Such pulling caps! such burning words!
“You shall!” “I won't!” “You'll see!”
Her pretty foot set down,
And said, “Now mark me, Mrs. B.,
I'll brook nor kings, nor crown.”
B. said, “Amen!” but missed her;
Compelled to yield, she nobly cried,
“Dear A., thou art my sister!”
One blue arch bending o'er us,
One bright, broad sea, that binds the land
Behind, to land before us.
Nursed on one parent knee,
We 're hasting o'er this watery track,
To drink that cup of tea.
Like mists above the sea,
Each land, to the same tune shall sing,
“My country, 't is of thee.”
The mother land which lures us;
And we will bring the hearty words,—
One soul, one ringing chorus.
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.
The pen of history shall record the tale;
A feeble taper, flashing o'er the sea,
But the first signal light of liberty.
A watchful horseman waits, to catch the light,
Then warn the sleeping people, far and near;
Who is the patriot rider? Paul Revere.
Fathers and sons a stern defence to make,
Armed with brave hands and hearts, resolved to be,
Through Heaven's behest, a nation of the free.
But found the freemen ready for the fray,
Waiting their coming,—men who knew no fear,
Prepared for battle!—roused by Paul Revere.
Then Independence struck the nation's hour.
The patriots won the day! and Percy's men,
Conquered and broken, sought their camps again.
With flickering rays o'er the still water's flung,—
A central sun, that nevermore declines,—
Still round the world, a radiant signal, shines.
With matchless zeal and fervent purpose fired,
But none more grandly served the cause so dear,
Than the brave patriot rider, Paul Revere.
PATRIOT'S DAY.
APRIL 19, 1775.
Men prompt to dare and do,—
To do, or die;
Blazoned on history's page,
Men for their stormy age,
Fearless the fight to wage,
Scorning to fly.
Saw, through the lurid sky,
The goal they sought,—
A nation of the free,
A land of liberty,
Stretching from sea to sea,—
O glorious thought!
Patient to toil and wait,
Suffered and bled;
With hunger, cold, and pain;
Hope rose, to sink again,
Till years had fled.
They of the iron will
Pressed, undismayed.
A nation's love they claim;
Born to immortal fame,
What lustre lights each name,
Never to fade!
Over these fair, free lands
Their flag unfurled;
Men, by all times admired,
To noble deeds inspired,
By whom “the shot” was fired,
“Heard round the world.”
Who, amid war's dread fires,
To triumph rode!
Proud of the deeds they wrought,
With countless blessings fraught,
Cherish the land they bought,—
The gift of God.
INDEPENDENCE DAY, JULY 4, 1776.
Voices from hill and vale
Thy welcome sing:
Joy on thy dawning breaks;
Each heart that joy partakes,
While cheerful music wakes,
Its praise to bring.
Our patriot fathers trod,
And dared be free;
'T was not in burning zeal,
Firm nerves, and hearts of steel,
Our country's joy to seal,
But, Lord, in Thee.
In battle's awful hour,
Didst round us stand;
Our hopes were in Thy throne;
Strong in Thy might alone,
By Thee our banners shone,
God of our land!
Long by our shaded rills,
May Freedom rest!
Long may our shores have peace,
Our flag grace every breeze,
Our ships, the distant seas,
From east to west!
From morn till even-tide;
Wake, tuneful song;
Melodious accents raise.
Let every heart, with praise,
Bring high and grateful lays,
Rich, full, and strong.
Sublime and swelling notes
On the air sail;
From fearless hearts and free,
The lofty minstrelsy
Rises, O God, to Thee
Hail, Freedom, hail!
THE CHILDREN'S INDEPENDENCE DAY.
Among the mountains,
And thunder breaks
Along the fountains;
Each river bank is gay with flowers,
More bright than rainbows in the showers.
Chorus.
Come, children, bring a cheerful lay,To welcome Independence Day!
In beauty shining;
And charming notes,
So sweet combining,
Proclaim 't is Freedom's holy light
That beams on every side so bright!
Ring loud with singing,
While infant mates
Their songs are bringing,
The God of victory to praise,
And swelling notes of triumph raise!
Of Freedom's nation;
Wake every tongue
In adoration.
Let music float on every breeze;
And whisper praises, all ye trees!
Of glad emotion,
Shall pass away
In sweet devotion
To God who gave our fathers peace,
To joyous friends, and childish bliss.
THE FOURTH OF JULY REMEMBERED.
SCHOOL CELEBRATION, JULY 24, 1832.
Along the path our fathers trod!
They girded them to deeds of might,
Depending on the arm of God.
So 'mid the night, in pillared flame,
Did Israel see the chosen way,
Marked by their God, where'er they came.
The children of the brave and free,
O God, Thy blessing we invoke,
And yield glad homage, Lord, to Thee.
Still smile beneath Thy guardian care;
Let peace be ours, by Thy command,
And health be wafted on the air.
We praise Thee for this happy day;
Still guide us, in the paths we go,
And lead us in Thy own right way.
HYMN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.
Soil which our fathers have bought with their blood!
Dear is each mountain, rock, river, and grave,
Fields where their feet on Oppression have trod;
Heroes, whose feet on oppressors have trod,
Green are their laurels and honored each grave;
Blest be the soil they have wet with their blood,
Land of the freemen and home of the brave!
Folds her fair pinions in loving repose;
Liberty reigns from the sea to the sea;
Freedom, triumphant, exults o'er her foes;
Freedom, triumphant, exults o'er her foes;
Tidings of hope echo far o'er the sea,
Bidding the nations oppressed to repose,
Sheltered by peace, in this land of the free.
Strong to deliver, and mighty to save;
Calm each wild tempest that sweeps o'er the sea,
Calm the fierce passions that swell like the wave;
Soothe the fierce tumult that swells like the wave,
Breathe with the whispers of love o'er the sea.
God, we rely on Thy mercy to save;
God, our protector, our strength is in Thee.
THE FATHERS REMEMBERED.
Sternly the early patriots stood!
Ready to buy, come life or death,
Their freedom at the price of blood.
No tyrant power could make them quail;
“Our rights, as freemen, we defend;
Our cause is God's—it cannot fail.”
But high in aim and grand in thought;
Nobly they spoke, brave men and true,
And nobler deeds of valor wrought.
Has left their influence still impressed
On all the hills their footsteps trod,
On fields their presence never blessed.
Thy mighty fiat made us free.
Our help in that decisive hour,
Still may we put our trust in Thee.
ODE IN MEMORY OF FRANKLIN.
On Franklin's glorious fame,
And all its freshest laurel wreathes
Around his honored name.
Bring summer's bloom his brow to adorn,
Bring spring's most gorgeous flowers;
He, with celestial yearnings born,
Made Nature's secrets ours.
In blue electric fire,
And roaring thunders loud proclaim
Him whom all lands admire.
Stand, patriot, sage, in lasting bronze,
By grateful art enshrined;
Live in ten thousand gathering sons,—
Thy meed, the polished mind.
Thy high renown again,
Linked with the history of our lives,—
Thy trophies, living men.
So Time rolls by, but gently breathes
On Franklin's glorious fame,
And all its freshest laurels wreathes
Around his honored name.
THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.
Born for thy own and every coming age,
Thy country's champion, Freedom's chosen son,—
We hail thy birth-day, glorious Washington.
Thy noble childhood, and thy generous youth,
Like spring's sweet blossoms on the sturdy tree,—
Gave early promise of the fruit to be;
And well it ripened, as the years rolled on,
And stood in manhood, glorious Washington.
When rose in threatening might the oppressor's pride,
And men, brave-hearted, stood in battle strong,
Resolved to avenge the right and smite the wrong.
Fierce was the fight, and many a hero fell;
Green are their laurels, and they earned them well.
Nursed in the lap of hardship, sternly taught
To value great ideas and high, free thought,
With noble sacrifice they staked their all,
To stand with Freedom, or with her to fall;
And many a patriot mother gave her son,
But one alone gave glorious Washington.
Live in his spirit; love his honored name;
Teach lisping childhood how the warrior stood,
A tower of strength 'mid scenes of strife and blood.
How Freedom triumphed and Oppression fell,
When he, the chieftain of the brave and free,
Led on our troops to joy and victory.
No son was his to bear his cherished name,—
No son, thank God! to bring his father shame;
But every patriot is a worthy son,
To bear thy name and title, Washington!
Trained by fierce fight to show sublimer powers;
Taught like the eagle, when the storm beats high,
With stronger wing to cleave the threatening sky,
And reach through raging winds the cliffs above,
Where dwell serenely liberty and love,
Grow strong, through toil, to bear our banners on,
As he once bore them, glorious Washington!
Will wear new honors, by our sons upborne;
Fast anchored on the Right, a glorious rock,
The cause of Freedom shall not feel the shock
That aims its force against the Ship of State.
Weak billows, vain your vengeance, vain your hate!
More patriot mothers have more sons to send;
More noble hearts have treasures still to spend;
More patriot sinews have more strength to give;
More loving hearts have loving lives to live,—
And Freedom shall not lack a faithful son
To track thy steps, O glorious Washington!
THE SONS AND THEIR STRUGGLES.
PATRIOT SONS OF PATRIOT SIRES.
A promise hid away,—
But dimly heralds what shall be
When comes the perfect day;
But sun, and rain, and frost, and heat
Enrich the fertile fields,
And the small life of earlier years
A waving harvest yields.
A disk of golden grain,—
Stands up at last, a rustling host,
And covers all the plain;
Who knows to what the infant germ,
In coming seasons, leads,
Or how the golden grain expands,
And mighty armies feeds!
High on the breezy hill,
Waits for the fulness of the times,
Its mission to fulfil,
What shall the future be?
A noble forest on the land,
Or navy on the sea.
The knights of book and pen,
Weary of childish games and moods,
Will soon be stalwart men;
The leaders in the race of life,
The men to win applause,
The great minds, born to guide the State,
The wise, to make the laws.
The land that gave them birth,
As patriot sons of patriot sires,—
The dearest spot of earth;
Teach them the sacred trust to keep,
Like true men, pure and brave,
And o'er them, through the ages, bid
Freedom's fair banner wave.
This poem was written on the 22d day of February, 1894, as the closing patriotic selection of “Beacon Lights of Patriotism.”
THE CINCINNATAE.
At meeting of the “Woman's Relief Corps, G. A. R.,” in Boston, August, 1890, the author of “America” suggested the organization of a Society similar to that which, under the name of “Cincinnati” represents the “Sons of the Revolution.” The suggestion was entertained, and the following responsive tribute was written upon the occasion.
Ye stalwart men and brave;
O'er all its breadth, from sea to sea,
Bid Freedom's banner wave.
They marched at Freedom's call;
One hope beat high in every heart,
One thought inspired them all.
The plough, ungeared, stood still,
While broader plans and loftier aims,
Waited the freemen's will.
His Roman soldiers, true;
So, fearless, trod through fields of blood
Our Cincinnati too.
With loving heart and hand,
Alert to feel, and quick to help,—
A noble female band?
To men to glory led;
These loving eyes, with bitter tears,
Have wept o'er soldiers dead.
'T was theirs to weld the chain,
Whose broken links were scattered wide,
In brotherhood again.
The anthem of the free;
Their loving lips, harmonious, sing,
“My country, 't is of thee.”
Of men to freedom true!
The land redeemed is proud to claim
Our Cincinnatae, too.
THE DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
Written at the request of Mrs. Edward Roby, of Chicago, on the gift of an autograph copy of the hymn “America,” to Miss Eugenie Washington, a grand-niece of General Washington, in connection with the First Congress of the Daughters of the American Revolution, held in the City of Washington, June, 1892.
The mountains and the sea,
In memory of the men who died,
Martyrs of liberty,—
Men pledged to plant, in this fair land,
A nation of the free;
And gave them not in vain;
And history spreads its halo round
Where rest the patriot slain.
Where Freedom's glorious spirit throbbed,
That spirit throbs again.
A grateful nation reaps;
A hallowed jubilee of love
The land they rescued keeps,
And o'er the green fields where they died
Its fragrant tribute heaps.
From tossing sea to sea,
They breathe, in tones that love inspires,
“Sweet land of liberty,”
Singing, in joyful harmony,
“My country, 't is of thee.”
Shall keep their memory well;
And age to youth, and sire to son,
The grand old tale shall tell;
And woman's tears shall consecrate
The rich fields where they fell.
The one o'er-arching sky;
I hear the tune from Northern throats,
I hear the South reply:
One heart, one home, one pulse, one land;
And one, we live or die.
Our hopes, our hearts are one;
Or south, or north, naught shall divide,—
We live beneath one sun.
Peace breathes, in ecstasy of love;
The goal we seek is won.
FLING OUT THE BANNER.
Shake out each starry fold;
Summon the stalwart soldiers forth,
The mighty and the bold,—
The bell of Freedom from its tower
Its solemn call has tolled.
The youthful and the brave;
Stand for the noble and the right,
The glorious Union save;
Stand for the cause for which their blood
Our patriot fathers gave.
Shines in immortal blue;
And light, like Heaven's approving smile,
Streams in its glory through.
Be patient, till the strife is o'er;
Have faith to dare and do.
The triumph of the brave;
On every breeze that sweeps our hills,
In glory let it wave,
O'er all the land, o'er all our streams,
O'er every soldier's grave.
This contest of the free;
This rousing of the nation's heart,
Like storms that rouse the sea,—
The fiery test has but refined
The love of liberty.
The emblem of the free;
Strike the sweet harp-tones that proclaim
The reign of liberty,
And bid the melody rebound
From every trembling key.
Whate'er the past has been,
A wayward wanderer welcomed back
To fill its place again,—
A loving band of sister-lights,
Just like the old thirteen.
The loving mother wore;
Reset the gems upon her breast,
Each where it shone before;
Clasp in the glorious cynosure
The entire dear thirty-four.
WAVE THE FLAG ON HIGH.
Spread out its folds of beauty toward the sea;
Bid softest winds its blood-bought charms expand;
Hail it with shouts,—the banner of the free!
Our cause is righteous, and our aim is pure.
Bears it the red?—we battle for the right;
Red blood may flow, but Freedom shall endure.
In Christian gratitude and faith we raise;
And every star, a new-made State, shall seal
Our fervent trust in God,—our joyful praise.
Where'er on sea or land the flag is seen;
They tell how God our growing States has led,—
Stars, thirty-seven, and stripes, the “old thirteen.”
No mind can guess the changes yet to be,—
But thou, in beauty, hold thy blessed way,
Our flag of peace, our symbol of the free.
THE PINE AND THE PALM.
AN ALLEGORY OF 1861–65.
And crystalled branches twine,
Stood, in its never-fading green,
A strong and stately pine.
The evening came with balmy breath,
And gold and purple dyes;
And glowing noon its heat diffused
From summer's ardent skies;
And tempests roared, with crashing might,—
But little cared the tree,
Rocked by the storms, it sang for joy
Its own sweet minstrelsy.
In endless summer's calm,
In fragrant beauty towered on high
A graceful, nodding palm;
Proudly it tossed its emerald head,
Wrapped in its haughty scorn,
Like roses in the lovelit bower,
Girt by the bristling thorn.
As through the palm they sung,
And reddening clouds around its head
A fiery lustre hung;
An angry cadence on the air
Seemed fitfully to float,
And pine and palm, as if in ire,
With wild, discordant note,
In sounds like rushing fire,
As if some demon in his wrath
Had swept his breaking lyre.
Came like a white-winged dove;
Hovered like angels in their flight,
A messenger of love;
Waved its bright form o'er pine and palm,
And touched them as it passed,—
The storm was laid, and notes of love
Came singing on the blast.
It lost its fiery hue,
And quenched the crimson of its cheek
In heaven's immortal blue;
Peace shed again along the hills
Its breath of fragrant balm,—
The waving palm-tree blessed the pine,
The waving pine, the palm.
THE MORNING COMETH.
These verses were written in 1862, under the never-faltering conviction that out of battle-struggle would come a crowning peace which would bind in closer bonds than ever a reconciled and prosperous people.
As comes the blessed rain,
When the burning heat and dryness
Have scorched the waving grain.
'T is not in vain to wait;
If the help serves God's great purpose,
It never comes too late.
As comes the blessed dew
On the weary, fainting flowers
When the noon-tide heat is through;
It comes in silent sweetness,
To comfort and to bless,—
We never hear its coming,
But it blesses none the less.
As the giant, rested, wakes,
As o'er the distant hill-tops
The morning redness breaks.
While the soldier on his picket,
His solemn vigil keeps,
The light already glimmers
On the highest rugged steeps.
But, O prophet, poet, when?
We have lavished forth like water,
Our treasure and our men.
We watch the cloudy pillar
That guides our devious way,
And, blinded in the darkness,
God bids our faith delay.
Love can calm the maddened brain,
And the palm-tree, and the pine-tree,
Interlace their boughs again;
The corn and cotton ripen
For the loyal and the brave,
And free men till the acres
Of a land without a slave.
Peace o'er all the land shall rest,
With a glory and a beauty
Like evening in the west;
The noon-tide brightness lingers,
But God can give it glow;
The forest sleeps in acorns,
But God can make it grow.
MEMORIAL HONORS.
In memory of the dead;
And, where the valiant soldiers sleep,
Strew honors o'er their bed.
As stars the skies illume,
These loving tributes, lo! we bring
To grace each hallowed tomb.
While dark oppression cowers;
And every tear affection weeps
Is crystalled into flowers.
Their memory, dear in death,—
Are fragrant as the blooming field,
Or summer's perfumed breath!
Like amaranths on the tomb,
The trust for which their blood was shed
Keep in immortal bloom.
THE EVE OF DECORATION DAY.
In the parlor of one of the Daughters of the American Revolution several young ladies sang as they made wreaths for the following day, and these stanzas record the incident.
Born of the brave and free,
They wove fair garlands while they sang,
“My country, 't is of thee;”
How every bosom swelled with joy,
And thrilled with grateful pride,
As, fond, the whispering cadence breathed,
“Land where my fathers died.”
Breaths from the vales and hills,—
While childish voices poured the strain,
“I love thy rocks and rills;”
“Land of the noble free;”
Each voice seemed reverent, as it trilled
“Sweet land of liberty.”
And bade the living keep,
Unharmed and pure, the cherished graves
Where brave men calmly sleep.
And thus while infant lips begin
To lisp “sweet Freedom's song,”
Manhood's deep tones, from age to age,
Shall still “the sound prolong.”
Gladness was in the strain;
The glorious land is safe, while love
Still swells the fond refrain.
And what shall be our sure defence,
Who guards our liberty?
Not men, not arms alone,—we look,
“Our father's God, to Thee.”
DECORATION DAY.
Ring out the strains, like the swell of the sea,—
Heartfelt the tribute we lay on each bed.
Sound o'er the brave the refrain of the free;
Sound the refrain of the loyal and free;
Visit each sleeper and hallow each bed;—
Waves the starred banner from sea-coast to sea,—
Grateful the living, and honored the dead.
Resting in glory, how sweetly they sleep;
Dewdrops at evening fall soft on each grave,
Kindred and strangers bend fondly to weep,—
Kindred bend fondly and drooping eyes weep
Tears of affection o'er every green grave;
Fresh are their laurels and peaceful their sleep;
Love still shall cherish the noble and brave.
Brood evermore with her sheltering wing.
God of the nation, our trust is in Thee;
God, our Protector, our Guide, and our King,
God, our Protector, our Guide, and our King,
Thou art our refuge, our hope is in Thee;
Strong in Thy blessing, and safe 'neath Thy wing,
Peace shall encircle these homes of the free.
PRECIOUS LIVES.
O'er every silent sleeper's head;
Ye crystal dews and summer showers,
Dress in fresh green each lowly bed.
Their country's joy, their country's pride;
For us their precious lives they gave;
For Freedom's sacred cause they died.
Like stars that gem the azure sky;
Their deeds, on history's page enrolled,
Are sealed for immortality.
May Freedom's spotless banner wave;
And fragrant tributes, grateful, tell,
Where live the free,—where sleep the brave.
CHERISHED NAMES.
Where low our fallen comrades sleep;
While sunbeams smile, and verdure waves,
And dews of evening o'er them weep.
In vain, ye have not lived nor died;
A grateful country keeps your fame,—
A sacred trust,—her joy and pride.
Where'er your blood has left its stain,
Where'er your conquering banners waved,
May peace prevail and Freedom reign.
OUR FALLEN COMRADES.
Honored in life, and in their memory blest:
Living, they earned and won a glorious name;
Dying, they found at once immortal fame.
Spring o'er their relics strews its fragrant flowers,
Smiles in the sunshine, weeps in dews and showers;
And summer spreads its freshest, sweetest bloom,
Green as their memory, o'er their honored tomb.
The dear old flag, in dyes she loves the best:
Blue, in the starry arch that bends above,
Like mothers bowed to kiss the babes they love;
White, when the earth is mantled o'er with snow,
A bridal honor for the brave below;
And red, when round their couch sweet autumn weaves
A burnished beauty with her fiery leaves.
The glorious banner wraps the rolling year,
And spreads its folds around the sleepers here;
As thousands weep the heroes who have bled,
For each a tear, a blessing on each head.
From granite crypts kind Nature fondly rears
The pillar hewed by love, and wet with tears,
The fitting record of the men who stood
True to the right, 'mid fire and death and blood;
And history writes their names high on her scroll,
Heroes of granite will, but loving soul.
A tower of strength, when blood cried out for blood.
The names engraven on the rock are thine;
The men who bore them, grateful hearts enshrine.
Dewdrop, and rain, and grateful tear may dry;
But noble deeds, once done, can never die.
Though marble, shattered, may betray its trust,
And pile and column crumble into dust,
Heroic deeds a deathless pile shall raise;
A land redeemed preserves their lasting praise.
Not here alone their monument is reared,
To memory sacred, and by love endeared;
Where'er the oppressed the bonds of sorrow wear,
Wher'er the slave lifts up his humble prayer,
Their high memorial lives, in fetters riven,—
A pile whose base is earth, whose crown is heaven.
The men who shrunk not from the flame or flood;
Who gave to Freedom's cause their noblest powers,—
Born for the nation's need, they died for ours.
Weep for their memory!—would they had not died!
Sing for their memory!—'t is the nation's pride.
They bore the toil; they earned the grand eclat;
Proclaim their memory with the glad hurrah!
No hostile banner wave above the dead;
No warlike clarion break their sweet repose,
Calm as the dewdrops, resting on the rose,—
But grateful tears their relics shall bedew;
The loved, the brave, the trusted and the true,
Mothers and maidens, gathered round the tomb,
Shall sigh, and sing the soldier's welcome home;
Mourning the fallen,—to their country given,—
With sweet will yielding to the will of Heaven.
“O grief unspeakable!”—yet Faith can see
Rifts in the cloud; “Our country, 't is for thee,”
And thus resigned, with calm and holy trust,
Mother and maiden leave the hallowed dust,
With woman's faithful heart their grief refrain,
Willing to make fresh sacrifice again.
Keep, holy earth, this loved and honored dust;
Sing your sweet pæans, birds of varied wing,—
In heaven's free air, let warbled freedom ring.
Keep nightly watch, ye stars, above their bed,
Teaching the living, smiling o'er the dead;
Though hid by tempests, gently still ye shine,
Keeping in heaven's blue field your march divine.
Heaven keeps its stars unharmed, as we shall ours;
Clouds cannot quench them; God's great word once given,
Their light shall flash again, full in mid-heaven;
And every star that keeps its shining way
Glimmers prophetic of the coming day.
Lift your tall crests, ye trees, in verdant pride,
A hundred storms your sturdy trunks have tried;
Tempests have beat in fury round your head,
But still ye cheer the living, shade the dead.
So when the raging blast has spent its power,
And clouds no more in angry blackness lower,
The nation, saved, shall bloom in peace anew;
Its genial shades the weary pilgrim woo;
Thousands repose beneath each sheltering bough,
Made stronger by the blasts that toss it now;
The anxious watcher mourn no kindred slain;
The soldier seek his home and babes again;
The sword be sheathed, and war's dread tumult cease;
And spotless banners wave in joy and peace.
BURIAL OF GENERAL GRANT.
And safely keep this treasured trust!
The land redeemed proclaims his worth,
The nation weeps his honored dust.
Unnumbered hearts revere his name;
His crown, a wreath which ne'er decays,
His fame is an immortal fame.
A nation's banner o'er him waves,—
So slept the ancient heroes, borne
With regal pomp to honored graves.
No sound thy deep repose shall break,
Till the day dawn in glory dressed,
Till the immortal morning wake.
THE STUDENT SOLDIERS.
HARVARD'S DEAD.
They sleep in many a glen;
They marched to glory and to death,
And came not home again:
But Science claims them for her roll,—
Her roll of honored men.
And some in ripening age,
Went forth, with valiant hearts and hopes,
To breast the conflict's rage;
And history every name records
On her immortal page.
And where the heroes sleep;
Weep where the funeral pomp proceeds;
At vacant firesides, weep.
When did thy sickle, mighty Death,
So precious harvests reap?
A requiem for the brave;
Sing hymns of cheerful melody
Above each soldier's grave;
In solemn joy, with festal folds,
Let the old banners wave.
Through them, new triumphs won;
Her honored wreaths are on the brow
Of every favorite son;
And age is reckoned, not by years,
But deeds of valor done.
Along her pillared nave,
Of patriot-sons, and sires who sleep
In Glory's star-gemmed grave,
Of all the list fair Science claims
The bravest of the brave.
AFTER THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
And so we hide our dead in silent shade,And hasten back to life, and life's parade;
Plunge into duty, grind in labor's mill,
Till the eye sees not, and the heart is still;
Weep each reverse and shout each victory,
And breathe our benisons, dear flag, on thee.
Living or dying, nation of the free,
Our hopes, our hearts, our lives, are all with thee.
“SLEEP, COMRADES, SLEEP!”
On thousand sunny hills,
In thousands of still alleys,
Beside the rippling rills,—
Who, who can tell the numbers
Of green graves where they sleep?
But peace breathes o'er their slumbers;
Love shall their ashes keep.
Sweet be your honored rest;
Thousands shall tell the story
How ye, your high behest,
Bravely in love fulfilling,
Gave up your lives, to be
A sacrifice most willing,—
The seal of liberty.
Sweet odors from fair flowers,
With dewy pearls comes, wreathing
Our bright and peaceful bowers,
We bring the first and fairest,
In honor to the brave,—
The choicest and the rarest,
To deck the soldier's grave.
Thy shield of glory spread!
Go Thou in love before us;
Direct the paths we tread.
To us Thy grace be given,
And then, the crowning beauty
Of fadeless wreaths in heaven.
“LIVING STILL.”
FOR THE CLASS OF 1829.
A remnant saved retires,—
Few, but still warm with their young life,—
To stir the old campfires;
How many marched with banners gay,
Who now, among the slain,
Sleep their last sleep at setting day,
And come no more again!
Of boys, grown gray-haired men;
Names and old faces, long time missed,
We see them,—boys again.
The ancient roll, whose magic date
Falls pleasant on the ear,
Rich as an argosy, its freight
Grows richer every year.
Which started for the fray,
Eager and strong, their honored parts,
On life's broad field to play.
Fond memory wakes them,—each and all;
We call them, name by name;
Or long to stand, or soon to fall,
They come as erst they came.
Some early passed away;
Some, when the sun of life rode high,
And poured his noontide ray;
And some—as autumn fruits, more late,
In mellow ripeness fall—
Fell,—and like watchers at the gate,
The rest await the call.
Each face and form we see;
Time, which mars all things, does but give
Our dreams intensity;
Like paintings which old mouldings guard,
Drawn with a master's skill,
Ranged in old catalogues, and starred,
To us they're living still.
ON THE ERECTION OF A SOLDIERS' MONUMENT.
And shield them in thy faithful breast,
Gathered like gems of priceless worth,
And brought among thy dead to rest.
Where sleep the trusted and the brave,
Pointing the mourner's faith above,
To Him who takes, to Him who gave.
Its fragrant airs, at morn and even,
And golden clouds in sunlight weave
Pathways of glory into heaven.
O'er all the land from sea to sea;
O'er all the land shall swell the note
Of Freedom's final Jubilee.
Yet own how vain are human boasts;
In God alone is power to save,—
Our trust is in the Lord of hosts.
MEMORIAL HYMN.
Pæans of honor raise,
With heart and song.
God is our shield and tower,
Our strength in danger's hour;
To Him all might and power
And praise belong.
Here, where the patriot band
Battled so well;
Here, where the nation's pride
The rushing storm defied;
Here, where the true and tried,
Unconquered, fell.
Joy for the land which cost
Such sacrifice.
Fond memory, grateful, weeps
Where each dead martyr sleeps,
And love her vigil keeps,—
Love never dies.
Salute each honored name,
Praise for the brave:
Tell what high deeds were done,
What triumphs Freedom won,—
God was their help alone,
Mighty to save.
THE ILLINOIS NINETEENTH REGIMENT AND CAPTAIN BREMNER.
Souls brave and true,
Born for the times of bitter strife,
When in the balance hung
The nation's life;
And men inspired to dare and do
Resolved to press the conflict through.
Prompt and prepared;
First to espouse the righteous cause,
First rising to defend
The land, the laws,
With patriot hearts and bosoms bared,
What toils they bore! What hardships shared!
Noted and known,
With them the noble Highland Guard,
Eager for honor's post,
Kept watch and ward,—
Foremost for deeds of glory done,
For battles fought, for victories won.
And Bremner's Band;
Huntsville and Mission Ridge their praise.
How oft they saved the day
In fierce affrays!
Victor and vanquished, hand to hand,
Mighty to fight, or firm to stand.
Calls, loud and long,
Summon the bravest to the front.
“Where is the old Nineteenth?”
Listen! their song!
They muster, prompt to do or die,—
They come! they strike!—The foemen fly!
The colors wave
Smite down—once, twice, again—
The true, the brave.
The men who bore the flag may die;
But Bremner waves its folds on high.
THE TWENTY-FIFTH G. A. R. ENCAMPMENT, 1893.
Those brave and valiant men,
From palace, cottage, shop, and farm,
From mountain, vale, and glen,
Ready to save the land, or die,
And ne'er return again.
The anthem of the free;
One theme their childish souls inspired,—
The tale of liberty;
Joyful, their infant lips had sung
“My country, 't is of thee.”
Into the harbor pour;
Each brow was set, each stalwart from
The air of purpose wore.
They answered to the call, “We come,
Three hundred thousand more.”
Sons of the brave and free;
In summer's heat and winter's chill,
Alike on land and sea,
Their souls were throbbing with the pulse
Of love and liberty.
In serried ranks they stood,
Patient to bear, patient to wait,
Alike in fire and flood.
“The Union must,—it shall,—be saved
Though it should cost our blood.”
Slain in the battle, fell;
Some found again their happy homes,
Where peace and freedom dwell,—
But wreathed as conquerors, or dead,
We love them still,—'t is well.
Some in an unmarked grave,
Enriching by their honored dust
The land they died to save;
And wild birds and the sighing wind
Chant requiems o'er the brave.
On which the sun has shone,
The purest, noblest heritage
The sons of men have known,
Still hold thy reign from sea to sea,
In queenly grace, alone.
Unwavering, met the gale;
Who passed the storm of war, unscathed,
And live to tell the tale,
Men of our love, our hearts, our hopes,—
Hail, the Grand Army, hail!
From sea to distant sea;
O'er all the land one banner floats,
The flag of liberty;
And all her millions swell one strain,—
The chorus of the free.
THE VETERANS.
The days of woe, and blood, and strife,
When thousands rushed, to stand, or fall,
For Freedom and the nation's life,
And frost, and heat, and rain, and dew,
And hopes deferred, like springs that fail
In summer's drought, our forces knew.
The trenches where we laid our dead;
The tangled paths our footsteps pressed;
The arms that ached, the feet that bled;
The foeman's gun with stealthy flash;
The fields where men were mowed like wheat;
The sweeping cannon's deadly crash,—
Scenes which the soul can ne'er forget!
Like quenchless watch-fires still they burn,—
'T was there that death and glory met.
O'er thee one flag of freedom waves;
Living, our hosts one people stand,
And freemen sleep in freemen's graves.
Our people spread from sea to sea;
We hear Thy voice, we heed Thy nod;
Keep us one people, brave and free.
Lead us as by the prophet's rod;
Our honor one, O, let us prove
One land, one people, for one God!
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
This Memorial Poem was written for the Twentieth Anniversary of the death of President Lincoln, Springfield, Illinois, April 15th, 1885.
Thy honored name,
With instrument and song, we laud,
And poets lays;
How every mountain top, and sheltered vale,
And rock and stream,
And lisping tongue of infancy and age,
And manhood's prime and woman's love,
Combine thy honored name to praise!
With reverent love, pious Æneas came,
Intent, with festal rites
To crown his father's fame,—
So we, with grateful reverence, come to pay
This loving tribute at the sacred shrine,
The statesman wise, the martyr prince,
The peerless man,
And on his tomb our fragrant garlands lay.
When from his rocky height,
Down on the plain he swoops, free as the air,—
Born with a soul of fire,
Born to be free,
Patient in toil, and danger, and alarm,
He ventured all for love of liberty,
And helped the lowly in that bliss to share.
Not his own age alone
Bears the proud impress of his sovereign mind.
Down the long march of history,
Ages and men shall see
What one great soul can be,
What one great soul can do,
To make a nation true,—
To raise the weak,
The lost to seek,
To be a ruler and a father too;
No scheming tool,
No slave to godless rule,
Gracious, efficient, meek, sublime, refined.
Nor power, nor place;
His aim, a nobler race;
His title eminent,—An honest man.
His, to lift up the rude;
His, to be great as good,
And good as great;
His, to stem error's flood;
His, but to help and bless;
His, to work righteousness,
And save the state.
Calm in emergencies,
Steady, alike, to wait, and prompt to move;
In counsel, great and safe;
Prudent to plan;
Righteous to deal with sin;
Prone, less to force than win;
Conquering, alone, to bless,—
A loving man.
In pity bountiful;
Calmly considerate, serenely just;
Nobly forgiving to the fallen foe,—
He, the meek sufferer from Oppression's blow,
Repaying ill with good,
E'en as the sandal-wood
Bathes with rare perfume the sharp axe that smites;
Unflinching for the right,
Whate'er might come,
And, until death,
Fervent, decided, faithful to his trust.
Death and decay's damp fingers
Waste but the mortal;
A nobler life spreads its far vista wide,
Beyond death's portal.
Like an unfading light
The life work lingers.
The hero dies; statesman and soldier fall;
The nation finds new life,
And prosperous years, and wealth, and peace,
And hearts at rest, and grander aims,
And righteousness,
And souls that dare to be,
Just as God made them,—free;
And he who falls, crushed in the bitter strife,
Lives magnified, exalted, ever lives;
His work bears fruit immortal.
Through clouds, and storms, and dim eclipse,
And winter's cold and summer's heat;
And, nightly, dips
His flaming disc in the broad western sea,
But scatters light and blessing all the day.
Setting, he leaves the world
Richer and better for his light and love;
Warmer, more fertile, more benign;
Sets, but to rise, on other lands, and shine
Forever, in the galaxy divine.
A CENTURY HYMN. 1789–1889.
This Hymn was written to be sung at the Celebration of the 100th Anniversary of the Inauguration of Washington as President of the United States,—April 30, 1889.
Born of the bold, the brave and free,
A nation, with its hundred years,
Its tribute brings, O God, to Thee.
What trials, has the century brought!
How has this free and glorious land
Been loved, defended, led, and taught!
Slowly the upward path have trod;
God was our light, and God our stay,
In flood and fire, in grief and blood.
Spreads its strong roots and boughs abroad,
Grows grand in grace, and stalwart form,
Honored of men, and loved of God.
Hold the broad land, from sea to sea;
And every tongue, and every breeze
Breathes the sweet anthem of the free.
O'er all our land in glory rest,
Our Heaven-appointed Ægis prove,
And make the coming centuries blest.
And every field for Freedom won,
Shall tell of heroes, firm and true,
And swell the fame of Washington.
For the same occasion the following stanza was added to the National Hymn, “America,” by its author.
Their grateful tribute pay,—
Happy and free,
After our toils and fears,
After our blood and tears,
Strong with our hundred years,
O God, to Thee.
MEMORIAL DAY, 1894.
Shall mark where friendship comes to weep;
Let clustering vines and fragrant flowers
Tell where the nation's heroes sleep.
By, and beneath, the sounding sea;
The forest-winds their requiem wail,—
The glorious sons of liberty!
Some, in the prime of manhood's bloom,—
Unshrinking, joined the bitter strife,
Unconquered, found a soldier's tomb.
Our praises and our love they claim;
Long shall their precious names survive,
Held sacred by immortal fame.
The land where Freedom's banners wave;
The land by blood and treasure bought,
Where dwell the free, where sleep the brave.
Dear patriots of our later days,
Inspired alike by faith sublime,
One trump of fame shall swell your praise.
O'er the broad land, from sea to sea—
Has left the glorious portion won,
The dear bequest of liberty.
Has passed; his silent watch is o'er;
The myriad troops, to battle led,
Shall march o'er fields of blood no more.
Freedom and love to all to bring;
And peace, o'er all the land they saved,
Broods, like the dove, with sheltering wing.
Where'er the sun of Freedom shines;
Wreathe with fair flowers each sleeper's bed,
Cherished and loved, as holy shrines.
MY NATIVE LAND.
We seek the old and new;
We try the lowly and the great,
The many and the few.
O'er States at hand and realms remote,
With curious quest we roam,
But find the fairest spot on earth
Just in our native home.
With men in ancient lore;
By day, by night, with reverent eyes,
O'er volumes old we pore,—
But Rome, and Greece, and Orient lands,
And heroes far away,
Great in their times, still lack the charm
That lights our own to-day.
Seen through sweet summer haze;
Helvetia's mountains, piled with snow,
Italia's sunset rays,
And lake, and stream, and crag, and dell,
And new and fairer flowers,
We own them rich, and fair,—but not
More grand, more fair, than ours.
The feet of ancient men,
And fill old palaces and courts
With echoing sounds again;
Temple and forum, bath and arch,
Un-earthed, in glory stand,—
These with admiring gaze we view,
But crave our native land.
Of men of high renown;
We see with praise the jewelled wealth
Of sceptre, mace, and crown,—
But dearer far the golden words
That made a people free;
And crown and sceptre pale before
A nation's liberty.
With loftiest purpose fraught,
Nurtured in hardship, toil and faith,
O land, divinely taught;
As streams the light from headland tower,
Guide o'er the stormy sea,
So hope, to all the oppressed, beams forth,
Dear native land, from thee.
3.
Part III.
POEMS: SACRED AND RELIGIOUS.
INCENTIVES TO EARLY PIETY.
OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.
Who know the Saviour's word,
To strains of grateful harmony,
Wake every joyful chord!
Their infants to the wave;
Not where they know not of the name
Of Him who came to save;
Of the unpeopled sea,—
But amid temples, we were born,
And where the holy be.
Of such, the Saviour said,
They, of “my kingdom,” shall be heirs;
For them, the Saviour bled.
The words of love are sent,
The cords of blessed truth to bind,
While those of sin are rent.
Who know the Saviour's word,
To strains of grateful harmony
Wake every joyful chord!
MORNING PRAYER.
FROM THE GERMAN.
And smiling day comes on;
The morning-dawn is breaking,
And we, from slumbers waking,
Look up to Thee, our Saviour,
And seek Thy daily favor.
To save from every snare;
Oh, make us good and holy,
And teach us to be lowly,
And kind in every feeling,
And to each other yielding.
Be Thou, our Saviour, near,
To shine upon us brighter,
And make the sorrows lighter,
That are to mortals given,
To make them fit for heaven.
And make us mild and good;
And when the clouds of evening,
Their glowing forms are weaving,
We'll look to Thee, our Saviour,
And praise Thee for Thy favor.
THINGS SMALL AND GREAT.
The oak-tree, wide and tall,
A shade on land, a ship at sea,
Was once an acorn small.
The buds of blushing spring
In summer beauty will expand,
And richest harvests bring.
Slight as the human hand,
But in its fertile bosom bears,
Blessings for all the land?
The morning's first faint ray
Shines, a sweet harbinger of joy,
Earnest of perfect day.
To lisp the Saviour's name?
The Saviour ransomed such as these,
For such as these He came.
Worthy his utmost care,
To fit it for the radiant crown
The Saviour's brow shall wear?
THE DEWDROP AND THE SOUL.
A little quivering one;
Yet in its tiny globe it holds
The mighty, shining sun.
Sparkles on life's fair tree;
But in its little compass, God,
The Almighty, deigns to be.
A light that ever shines;
Cradled in thorns, beaming with joy,
Such are life's varied lines!
Exhaled,—'t is quickly gone!
Fraught with immortal life, the soul,
Like God himself, lives on.
To this dark world is given!
Winds breathe and pass; such life will last,
A life for God and heaven.
RELIGION.
And, quick, their charms retreating,
Give place to grief and woe!
There is no scene of gladness,
That is not dashed by sadness;
There is no perfect bliss below.
And ever-during treasures,
Joys which no tongue can tell,
Sweet streams of consolation,
And rivers of salvation,—
From pure religion's fountain well!
And troubles crowd before us,
Religion gives us light;
The chains are loosed that bound us,
The skies grow clear around us,
And all is peaceful, fair, and bright.
Thro' Death's dark Jordan wading,
There is no painful gloom:
Religion cheers the holy,
And points the meek and lowly
To joys that live beyond the tomb.
REMEMBER THY CREATOR.
ECCLESIASTES XII.
While youth's fair spring is bright,—
Before thy cares are greater,
Before comes age's night.
While yet the sun shines o'er thee,
While stars the darkness cheer,
While life is all before thee,
Thy great Creator fear.
Before the dust returns
To earth,—for 't is its nature,—
And life's last ember burns!
Before with God who gave it
Thy spirit shall appear,
He cries, who died to save it,
“Thy great Creator fear.”
THANKSGIVING.
Let thoughts of praise our hearts employ
Amid the harmony around,
Let not our tongues be silent found,—
Our music still!
To Him whose glories round us flow,
To Him who bids our sorrows cease,
And fills our souls with sacred peace,—
So great His love!
He leads our thoughts to holy themes;
Our wandering feet His love redeems,
By day He cheers us with His light,
And gives us sweet repose at night,—
So rich His grace!
Join in the angels' minstrelsy,
Till earth no more is dark with sin,
And heavenly joys their course begin,
No more to cease!
MARTHA AND MARY.
Her lot, to do and bear,
To watch and wait,
Martha, with tender thought,
Her loving service brought;
It was for Christ she wrought
Early and late.
Low at the Saviour's feet,
Hung on His word;
Waiting His voice to hear,
With meek and holy fear,
Beside her Lord.
Waiting at Jesus' feet,—
The twain in one,—
Whether we hear or do,
With patient hearts and true,
To toil, and listen, too,
To Him alone.
PERFECT IN CHRIST.
Perfect in manhood,—perfect, Lord, in Thee;
Strong in Thy strength, to love, to do, to bear;
Strong through Thy mighty arm, Thy ceaseless care.
Nor wearing toil, nor weight of wearying cross
Shall check the fond desire that bliss to feel,—
To bear the impress of the Spirit's seal.
Leaps from her nest, and, soaring heavenward, sings,—
So would our souls, from sin's dark thraldom free,
Bound upward, Lord, to find their rest in Thee.
O'er sin and weakness shall at last prevail;
In Him complete, before Him reverent fall,—
Our Priest, our King, our Saviour, and our All.
FLEETING BLESSINGS.
FROM THE GERMAN.
A tall and branching tree,
Beneath whose shade a shepherd lived,
From care and tumult free.
The rustling breeze, so mild and cool,
Watched o'er his nightly rest;
And all day long the rippling stream
In flashing light was drest.
Rushed fiercely to the shore,
Tore from its root the stalwart tree,
And down the current bore;
The flood passed by, and all was still,
The broad, bright stream flowed on;
But when the shepherd sought the place,
The sheltering tree was gone.
So death is drawing nigh;
And we, with all our life and joy,
May droop and faint and die!
When God shall call our spirits home,
We may no longer stay;
Dear Saviour, make us meet to dwell
With Thee in endless day!
EARLY CONSECRATION.
To Him, who sheds upon us every blessing,—
Ourselves, our all, we consecrate to-day;
Our souls we yield to His delightful sway.
Our hearts from Thee, our God, our King, forever;
Our steadfast spirits shall in Thee confide,
And ever near Thy sacred throne abide.
Where'er we stay, no sin shall triumph o'er us.
In every hour, to Thee, our souls shall fly;
To Thee, we yield our spirits, till we die.
Shall never by deceitful hearts be broken;
Still let Thy grace upon our efforts shine,
And we will evermore be only Thine!
OUR BELOVED TEACHERS.
As earth's fair flowers shut at even,—
So pass they from our paths away
Who led our infant feet to heaven.
Shall in a genial harvest rise,
And children gathered home to God
Be their bright honor in the skies.
Prepares fresh gems in heaven to shine;
Such wealth no worldly ill can spoil,
Nor make its priceless worth decline.
To give their hearts, O Lord, to Thee,
Bind budding life and opening thought
To life's great end,—eternity.
And Heaven shall yield its long reward,
Gather our little flock at last
To be forever with the Lord.
THE WORD OF GOD.
Our star by night, our sun by day!
Our compass o'er life's pathless sea!
Our guide, O God, to heaven and Thee!
Thy precepts love, thy law revere!
God's hand on every leaf we trace;
In every page we see His face!
How rich the covenant love it seals!
How safe on its Amen to rest,—
The Word of God, forever blest!
Reign Thou, Jehovah, God alone!
Send forth Thy Spirit with Thy word,
Till all earth's millions own Thee, Lord!
THE CLOSING WEEK.
Advancing from the west,
As ends the weary week of toil,
And comes the day of rest!
Her radiant beauty sheds;
And myriad sisters calmly weave
Their halo round our heads.
The world's hard contest close;
The holy hours with God begin;
Yield thee to sweet repose.
Its sacred light will cast,—
Fair emblem of the glorious day
That evermore shall last.
SATURDAY EVENING.
The twilight onward speeds,—
As night to day, and day to night,
In changeless round succeeds.
That swells upon the air;
And quicker footsteps seem to tell
Of more than common care.
It brings the joyful close
To earthly scenes awhile, and bids
The spirit take repose.
No care with harsh control
Shall bind, in mortal grasp, the strength
Of the immortal soul.
With holy converse blest,
And urge the lingering spirit on,
To seek the heavenly rest.
'T is but the note that tells
Of preparation for the peace
That in the Sabbath dwells!
SABBATH MORNING.
O'er island, continent, and deep!
How sweet the thrill of holy peace,
Whose pulses through the spirit creep!
The balmy wind more fragrant blows;
While the blue canopy above
Reflects and shares the glad repose.
Heaped on the far horizon's rim,
Seem like an angel choir at rest,
Intent to join earth's grateful hymn.
In every land where man has trod;
The babe to lisp, and age to learn,
The wondrous works and ways of God.
From South to North, from East to West,—
To Him whose loving arms embrace,
Whose loving voice proclaims them blest.
THE LORD'S DAY.
Of the happy week the best;
Care and sorrow leave the breast
On the Sabbath day.
Sweetest is the evening star,
Fairest Nature's glories are,
On the Sabbath day!
Where Salvation's tidings flow,
Breathing heaven while here below,
On the Sabbath day!
Kind and gentle every rule,
Every scene of mercy full,
On the Sabbath day!
Meek and mild and good to be,
While Thy teachings come to me
Every Sabbath day!
By Thy Spirit and Thy love;
May I all the joys improve,
Of the Sabbath day!
When they leave this mortal dust;
Teach me, Lord, in Thee to trust,
On the Sabbath day!
ANNIVERSARY HYMN.
Of all the week the best,—
Queen of the seven!
Day given to praise and pray,
Soothing life's weary way,
Turning our night to day,
Emblem of heaven!
Breathings of heaven are there;
Its hymns of praise
And messages of love
Attract our hearts above,
Bidding us come and prove
Jesus' rich grace.
Blest be His loving word,—
“Let children come
To me,”—their Guide and Friend!
He will our steps defend,
And, when life's toils shall end,
Welcome us home.
Marks one more happy year,
In mercy given;
When fades life's twilight ray,
Be ours the perfect day,—
Life, that feels no decay,
Sabbath in heaven!
A SABBATH-SCHOOL HYMN.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Full of childish bliss;
Every changing scene
Brings its happiness;
Yet our joys would not be full,
Had we not the Sabbath-school.
Of each rising day;
Loveliest, the morn
Of the Sabbath day!
Then our infant thoughts are full
Of the precious Sabbath-school.
Blessed News are brought,—
Tidings of the work
Love divine has wrought.
Gracious news and merciful,—
How we love the Sabbath-school!
Thus to point the road
Leading us from sin
To our Father, God.
May we all be dutiful,
In the precious Sabbath-school!
Of each passing day;
Fairest is the night
Of the Sabbath day;
Then our hearts with praise are full,
For the precious Sabbath-school.
SABBATH EVENING.
Of the holy Sabbath day,
Gently as life's setting sun,
When the Christian's course is run.
O'er the earth, as daylight fades;
Nature rests in sweet repose,
At the holy Sabbath's close.
'T is the holy peace of God,—
Symbol of the peace within,
When the spirit rests from sin.
Where the evening worshipper
Seeks communion with the skies,
Pressing onward to the prize.
Days of peace and joy in Thee,
Till in heaven our souls repose,
Where the Sabbath ne'er shall close.
GOD BE OUR STAFF AND FRIEND.
Of friends and home,
Summoned by life's high call,
Pilgrims, we roam;
Waifs on the world's highway,
Cheerful in hope, we stay;
God make our darkness, day,
Our winter, bloom.
Fond memory tells,
Sweet as the lulling sounds
Of vesper bells;
But more than pleasures gone,
Are deeds of duty done,
And life's grand conquest won,—
Draughts from deep wells.
The loved, the fair,
To keep this festal day
With praise and prayer.
We know they love us still;
God save them all from ill,
Their ardent prayers fulfil,—
The loved ones, there.
Through all life's fever;
God be our Staff and Friend,
Strong to deliver;
Then, 'neath heaven's gorgeous dome,
No more like drifting foam,
The households, all at home,
Shall feast forever.
Written for a Young Men's Association of Boston, to be sung at a Thanksgiving Dinner; also used at a Christmas Dinner, at San Francisco, 1884, by two hundred young men, away from home.
THE YOUNG FOR CHRIST.
Written for the Societies of Christian Endeavor and other Young Peoples' Societies' Convention held in Chicago, Ill., July, 1891.
In Christ's dear love we meet;
The hosts who labor in His cause,
In Christ's dear name we greet.
Our hopes, our aims are one,—
As planets, in their devious flight,
Revolve around one sun.
At one Redeemer's feet;
Our prayers, like clouds of incense, rise
Before one mercy-seat.
Are doubly sweet and fair;
Our budding youth to God we bring,
And leave the offering there.
From sea to sea, be given;
His will be done o'er the wide earth,
Just as 't is done in heaven!
ONWARD! CHRISTIAN WARRIORS.
Where'er the trumpet calls;
Onward! the Leader summons,
Beyond the sheltering walls;
Onward! the work awaits you,
Fear not the world's cold frown;
Arm for the glorious conflict,
Then wear the victor's crown.
Where crime and sorrow reign;
Onward! like men in earnest;
Onward! with heart and brain;
To break the bonds of sin;
Onward! the lost to rescue;
Gems for Christ's crown to win.
The Captain's signal see;
Onward! to deeds of glory;
Onward! to victory;
Onward! with God assisting,
Like soldiers true and brave,
Till o'er each conquered fortress
Salvation's banners wave.
THE GOSPEL MINISTRY.
HARVEST-TIME.
Waves 'neath the sunny sky,
And ripening harvests offer sheaves
For immortality.
And who at last will stand,
A faithful servant, crowned with joy,
O Lord, at Thy right hand?
To us the charge be given,
To gather souls to Christ, and find
Our garnered sheaves in heaven.
Strength to the reapers send,
To bear the burden of the day,
And labor till the end.
Then shall Thy kingdom come,
And echoing anthems greet at last
The heavenly harvest home.
SOWING AND REAPING.
On sunny hills expand,
The world's wide harvest, fully ripe,
Waits for the reaper's hand.
And who with gladness sing,
When he that sowed with tears and hope
His sheaves shall homeward bring?
Through paths of sadness led,
Shall bring some crown at last to rest
On our Immanuel's head.
Be dark or bright our way,
We toil in hope and love, till dawns
Heaven's pure and perfect day.
In humble faith and prayer,
And he that reaped in fields at home,
Shall sing together there.
Shall hear the joyful “Come!”
Sower and reaper meet and sing
Heaven's glorious “Harvest-home.”
WELCOME TO A PASTOR.
O teacher, sent from Heaven;
To thee, to guide our souls to God,
The highest behest is given.
The warning trump to sound;
Come, point us to the Rock, wherein
Alone is safety found.
To cheer the fainting soul;
Come with the Spirit's saving power,
To make the wounded whole.
The tender flock to guide,
To feed in pastures green, and lead
Where living waters glide.
The sickle waits thy hand,
And bending harvests, far and near,
Around the reaper stand.
His finished labor leaves,
He, with rejoicing heart, shall bring
Homeward his glorious sheaves.
A BLESSING SOUGHT UPON A PASTOR.
The vow is pledged, the toil begun,—
Seal Thou, O God, the oath above,
And ratify the pledge of love.
Gird him with Thy own holiness;
In duty may his pleasure be,
His glory in his zeal for Thee.
Faith fix its grasp beyond the skies,
The tear of penitence be shed,
And myriads to the Saviour led.
The mists of earth and sin dispel;
Blest Saviour, Thy own rights maintain,
Supreme in every bosom reign.
A grateful tribute, Lord, to Thee;
And may these hallowed scenes of love
Fit us for purer joys above.
THE DIVINE PRESENCE INVOKED.
Exalted be Thy praise!
Let all below, let all on high,
To Thee hosannas raise.
The saints around the throne,
While they, in holy reverence, fall,
And worship Thee alone,—
Oh, may our praise ascend;
And unto us reveal Thy face,
While at Thy feet we bend.
We fain would bring to Thee,
And, like the saints in Thine abode,
Serve Thee in purity.
In Zion's courts appear,
And make it known, this sacred hour,
That Zion's God is here.
BENEFITS OF THE MINISTRY.
And earthly scenes are far,—
When tears of woe forget to start,
And gently dawns upon the heart
Devotion's holy star.
To hear our worship rise,
Where kindred thoughts their musings blend,
And all the soul's affections tend
Beyond the veiling skies.
Man to his work of love,—
Bind him to cheer the humble mind,
Console the weeping, lead the blind,
And guide to joys above.
Spirit divine, to Thee,
When they whose work is finished well,
In Thy own courts of rest shall dwell,
Blest through eternity.
GREAT IS THE WORK, BUT THINE THE POWER.
ORDINATION HYMN.
Our Strength in weakness, and in fear, our Tower;
Seal with Thy Spirit what our hands have done,
And crown with joyful fruits the work begun.
Enrich the sower, bless the fruitful soil.
To prayer and faith, let souls redeemed be given;
Graces made perfect, spirits trained for heaven.
To us intrusted, crave, O God, Thy care;
Cheerful, we wait Thy will, our field assign;
Grant us Thy help, and be the glory Thine.
THE CHOSEN OF GOD.
To shine as radiant stars above,—
The sons of light, the heirs of heaven,
The tenants of a world of love.
Of anguish from the pilgrim's eye;
No wearying toil, no anxious fear,—
The conqueror never more shall die.
Shall e'er that better land invade;
Faith's vision there shall change to sight,
And glory o'er the scene be shed.
In every ransomed soul shall reign;
There parted friends shall meet in joy,
There mothers clasp their babes again.
To catch a glimpse of joys so high;
Nor thought can reach, nor words describe
The scenes that glow beyond the sky!
To pass beyond affliction's rod,
The crown of endless life to win,
And reach the paradise of God.
THE SICKLE AND THE SHEAF.
Thine, Lord, to give the sheaf;
Through Thee the buds of spring-time
Burst into life and leaf.
Mine is the toil of seed-time,
And Thine the sun and rain;
Mine is the sweat and patience,
And Thine the ripened grain.
Amid their labors fall,
And workmen, few and scattered,
In vain for helpers call;
Though noontide heat burns fiercely,
Or threatening tempest lowers,—
The gathering and the gleaning
Is by mightier strength than ours.
Though the drought curls up the leaf;
We can trust Jehovah-jireh
To fill the swelling sheaf.
'T is ours the sturdy muscle,
The vigorous arm to bring;
'T is Thine with heavenly blessing
To make the valleys sing.
In their drooping tassels dressed;
Beyond the field of labor,
We shall find a place of rest.
We shall meet again the reapers
Who share our grief and joy;
In the harvest-song of glory,
We shall find one blest employ.
Flies forth at dawn of day,
Poised on her fearless pinions,
With God to guide her way,
Soars upward, as the morning
Glows with God's glory bright,
On, till her form, receding,
Loses itself in light.
The garnered crop secure,—
And God shall bid His reapers
Toil in the heat no more;
We from all care and sorrow
Shall find divine relief,
And lay before our Master
The sickle and the sheaf.
CHRIST, THE CORNER-STONE.
That Rock of Ages we adore;
Glory shall crown His name alone,
Rock of our faith, eternal, sure!
And spire and pinnacle shall rise
In solemn grandeur, holy grace,—
A grateful tribute to the skies.
In hope, the house of God we rear.
Here God will answer when we pray;
Jehovah shall be worshipped here.
This sacred stone shall still record
That we and ours the covenant keep,
That we and ours confess the Lord.
THE REAPERS.
Climbs up the morning ray,
Whose growing light and warmth foretell
The reign of perfect day;
O'er the wide fields the springing grain
Shoots up its verdant threads,
Prophetic of the waving crop,
And the wheat's ripened heads.
Their gleaming sickles by;
And countless heaps of precious sheaves
In yellow bundles lie.
From field and home, from plain and hill,
Hasting in joyous throngs,
They make the bright and fragrant air
Echo with grateful songs.
Scattered by loving hands,
Harvests of untold wealth produce
In all the earth's broad lands.
The germ, once dropped in fertile soil,
A wondrous yield shall see,
Divinely sown, divinely fraught
With immortality.
THE AGED PASTOR.
And age's silver head;
What memories of the loved and lost,
The living and the dead,
Crowd on the thoughts, as time recalls
The scenes of earlier years,
Weaving, like flowers with autumn leaves,
Garlands of joy and tears!
Familiar faces strange!
While history with her pen records
How men and landscapes change;
And near twice forty years, thy steps,
The wreath of cloud and flame
Has led, alternate, proving still
Thy covenant, God, the same.
Faithful and trusted still;
Trusted, on life's ascending slope,
Faithful, as slants the hill
Declining westward, where the sun
Turns toward the light of even,
And rests among the pillared clouds,
The gateways into heaven.
We speak no empty praise;
We hang not on the grand old oak,
A wreath of heartless bays,—
While thankful memory wanders back
Through all the growing years,
And eyes the busy world has dazed,
Are dimmed with grateful tears.
The tasks of duty done;
The conquered fields, the harvests gained;
The laurels sought and won,—
Are but his life, whose lips have taught
Lessons of love and truth,
Embodied in our riper days,
Taught in our tender youth.
Inspired us to be men,
Enshrined in Time's slow-gathering years,
Shall live and move again,
As sculptured bust or painted form,
The boast of ancient days,
Transmitted through all ages, still
Lives for a joy and praise.
STEWARDSHIP.
At power's exalted shrine,
With solemn voice, Jehovah calls,
“This wealth, this power, is mine.”
Of all the bounteous store;
The rest, 't is God's command, employ
To bless His suffering poor.
Give, like the sun and rain,—
Claiming no merit for the deed,
Nor asking aught again.
For every gift shall be,—
“Ye gave it unto Christ the Lord,
Ye gave it unto me.”
GOD OF THE STARRY WORLDS ABOVE.
INVOCATION BEFORE THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.
God of Creation's goodly frame!
Glory, Thy robe; Thy nature, love,—
We rear this temple to Thy name.
God over all, here hold Thy state!
Dwell in this house,—Thy chosen home;
These earthly courts Thy presence wait.
Come, like the glowing noontide ray.
Come, blessing by Thy glorious power;
Thy light diffuse, Thy grace display.
On new-mown fields, with quickening power;
Revive us, from the heavenly hills,
As dews revive the fainting flower.
With grateful heart and voice, we raise,
Descend in glorious grace, and rear
A living temple to Thy praise.
COME, O DIVINE SHEKINAH, COME!
DEDICATION HYMN.
With glory fill this new abode:
Come,—in our waiting souls there's room,—
Display Thy power,—a present God.
Come as a God of love and power;
Refresh Thy people from above,
As dews refresh the drooping flower.
Our temple with Thy light adorn,
As crimson rays of glory trace
The gorgeous rising of the morn.
The sad to cheer, the bruised to heal,
The wounds that sin has made, to ease,
The covenant of our life to seal.
Come, in our waiting souls there 's room;
With glory fill this new abode,—
Come, O Divine Shekinah, come!
DEDICATION OF CARYVILLE CHAPEL.
This sacred shrine to Thy almighty name;
Come, as, of old, the solemn cloud appeared,
When to the temple veil Thy presence came.
Accept our gift, and here set up Thy throne;
Our refuge Thou, our hope, our only tower,
Thy blood our ransom, reign in us alone.
Words of true prayer; our human lips inspire;
Thine is the temple, Thine the psalms we sing;
Our hearts are Thine; Thou art our souls' desire.
With reverent homage at Thy feet we bow.
We yield to Thee the work our hands have done,—
Our temple stands, its crowning glory, Thou.
GOD OF THE MOUNTAINS AND THE SEA.
RE-DEDICATION OF SEAMEN'S BETHEL, NOVEMBER 8, 1893.
Thy grateful people come to Thee,
To offer humble praise and prayer,
Thy love to own,—Thy grace to share.
The temple for Thy presence waits;
Display Thy power, Thy grace make known;
In every heart erect Thy throne.
Here let Thy saints Thy glory see,
Thy name to waiting souls reveal,
The contrite soothe, the wounded heal.
Glad trophies of Thy saving power,
And own the abundance of the sea,
A rightful offering, Lord, to Thee.
THE FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY?
And kingdoms sink, the Church remains,—
From life's immortal fountain fed,
A light whose glory never wanes.
With fervent faith, with armor bright;
Now, gathered with the sons of God,
As stars at morning melt in light.
And here their fallen mantles rest;
Though gone from earth, their works abide,
Like sunset glory in the west.
And wave with hallowed incense still;
They sleep in death; their children wake,
The lamps with golden light to fill.
We own Thy power, we sing Thy grace;
Still to new conquests Thou shalt ride,
And added centuries speak Thy praise.
SWEEP ON, O CAR OF LIGHT!
DEDICATION OF THE GOSPEL CAR “EMMANUEL,” IN DENVER, COLORADO, MAY, 1893.
God bless thy holy flight;
On thy wheels bring
Peace to the troubled breast,
And, to the weary, rest;
Glad, for thy mission blest,
The angels sing.
Roll to the waters bright,
The distant sea;
Visit the lonely vale,
Outfly the wintry gale;
Thy errand will not fail,
God moves with thee.
Thy Spirit and Thy word
Shall speed Thy way.
Scatter the shades of night;
Command, “Let there be light!”
Gird on Thy sword of might,
And win the day.
On, till from pole to pole
Christ reigns alone;
Till earth shall choose His sway,
And all its trophies lay
Before His throne.
FAREWELL TO THE OLD CHURCH.
Preserved in memory's shrine;
No scene will drive them from their place,
Or dim one precious line.
We linger, chained by love, to-day,
Amid the hallowed past,
And weep, as mournfully we say,—
This hour must be the last.
And here, in riper years,
Our hearts, with joy or sorrow fraught,
Burdened with doubts and fears,
Like rivers, swollen with floods in spring,
Gushed with repentant grief,
Or felt the power of grace to bring
The needed, sweet relief.
And sat in pious trust,
And left, their pilgrimage complete,
The memory of the just;
Their honored footsteps trod,
And trace the path of faith and prayer,
By which they passed to God.
To Him who reigns above;
Here learned in humble faith to bow
To Him whose name is Love.
Here have we stood, a grateful band,
Nor sought such bonds to part,—
Dear every brother's faithful hand,
Each sister's loving heart.
On some far distant shore,—
Returned to seek their early home,
Their well known cottage-door,—
Mourn for the friends of earlier times,
For many an honored head,—
Some passed, long since, to other climes,
Some, sleeping with the dead,—
White rose-leaves on their brow,
Some, shadowed o'er by clouds of gloom,—
Alas, how altered now!—
We seek the friends to memory dear,—
How many—but in vain;
Oh, who will bring our loved ones here,
Just as they were, again?
Redeemed and saved, they shine;
Each brow, a light divine;
And we on earth, and they above,
Led by one Shepherd's hand,
Encircled by one wreath of love,
Form still one blessed band.
But keep what grace has done;
The rushing tide of life has found
New victories to be won;
But, temple, where the saints have prayed,
Where God has deigned to dwell,
How shall we let thy glory fade?
How shall we say “farewell”?
Where once our fathers trod;
How darken here the light divine
Of those who walked with God?
With quivering lip, with tearful eye,
With calm, but bleeding heart,
We sit in mournful sympathy,
And breathe the word,—Depart.
A temple high and pure;
The tenants, clad in raiment bright,
Shall leave its courts no more;
No night shall darken o'er its wall;
No sigh with anthems blend;
No mourners weep, no shadow fall,—
Its worship never end.
Shall reap in endless joy;
And saints from all the varied years,
Shall find one glad employ.
Cemented by one bond of love,
Striking one heavenly strain
Our members all shall meet above,
Baldwin Place Church again.
THE LIVING CHURCH.
THE ROCK OF AGES.
Thy living Church abides secure;
Nations and men may fade away,
Thy work of Grace shall still endure.
Waits for Thy crowning presence now;
Accept the work our hands have wrought;
We are but dust,—almighty, Thou.
Treasures of thought be gathered here;
And truth, from living lips dispensed,
Fall, welcome, on the listening ear.
We lay our gift before Thy face:
'T is dark, but for Thy radiant light;
'T is poor, but for Thy heavenly Grace.
O'er all the hallowed work appear;
And let the living record stand,—
The place is holy; God is here.
GOD ALL IN ALL.
Thy robe, the light; the heavens, Thy throne;
The winds, Thy voice; Thy path, the sea,—
Reverent, we bow, and worship Thee.
Creation does but veil Thy face.
Thy life, our life; Thy warmth, our spring;
Our only rest, Thy sheltering wing.
We feel the whispers of Thy will;
We come, we go, at Thy command;
We wait the moving of Thy hand.
Teach us Thy precepts to revere;
And fashion us, through grace, to be
But living temples meet for Thee.
DIVINE PROVIDENCE.
DEDICATION HYMN.
Bring joyful hosannas to honor His name;
With glad acclamations His altar draw near;
Bow low to His footstool; Jehovah is here.
Through Nature's wide realm the Omnipotent God;
But chooses the temples we build to His praise,
As shrines for His name, and abodes of His grace.
Thou, strong to redeem, and Thou, matchless in love;
Like light breaking forth from the gates of the morn,
May rays from Thy glory this temple adorn!
THE REDEEMER'S TEARS.
The two fond sisters, in their sackcloth robes,
Drenched in affliction, and the godless Jews,
In that one scene made lovely, as they went
To weep with Mary at the sepulchre,
Stood there, a grieving circle. She came forth,
Obedient, e'en in sorrow, to the call
Of Him who called for her. There was no voice
Among the whited stones that pointed out
The home of dead men, and no scenery,
Or sweet, or gorgeous, in the hills or vales
Of loveliest form and hue that spread around them,
To call forth a moment's admiration;
There was one absorbing sense of sorrow,
That burned at the heart's core. The glorious voice
Of Him who raised, triumphant, the dead brother
Had not broke out in holy thanksgiving;
But there they stood, consumed by their deep grief,
And there—there, Jesus wept.
Where Zion's temple shone. Down the descent
Of Olivet a joyous crowd advanced,
Singing hosannas unto Him that came,—
The Son of David, and yet David's Lord,
The prophet of their nation; not as when
Each heart beat sadly, and the silent tears
Stole down the cheeks of all the sorrowing band
At the dead brother's tomb. Now all was gay
And bright. But unto a devoted place,
Cursed as the dwelling of the crucifiers,
The crucifiers of the Lord of life
And glory, they were drawing near. The crowd,
Rejoicing in their city, and the sheen
Of their own glorious temple, pressed their way,
Thoughtless of coming evil. But, behold!
Amid the happy throng one stretched His gaze
Into eternity, soon to receive
The uncomforted inhabitants, whose towers
Were ready to their fall,—the inhabitants
Who knew not when their visitation came;
One gazed in silent sadness as He thought
Upon their coming fate, and Jesus wept.
Whose sorrowing sisters He had loved; and once,
When He foresaw Jerusalem's dread fate.
THE LAST SUPPER.
JOHN XIII. 1; XIV. 14, 23, 27.
Burning with a holy flame,
Though His last days were expiring,
Jesus to the city came:
Still His own disciples loving,
He had words of peace to say;
Anxious thoughts His breast were moving
As drew near the farewell day.
When the traitorous foe had gone,
Love their souls more closely knitting,
As the dreadful scene drew on,
Pledges of His love He gave them,
Sweet memorials of His name;
Then declared how He, to save them,
From the Father's bosom came.
'T is my peace I give to you;
Let the words that I have spoken
Be your trust and comfort too.
For a little while I leave you,
To my Father I must go;
Yet I will not—will not grieve you,
But the Comforter bestow.
I am going to prepare;
Though the path be dark and gory,
Ye shall all be with Me there.
Father, let Thy mercy guide them,
Sanctify them by Thy grace;
And, whatever woes betide them,
Let them see Thy smiling face.
GETHSEMANE.
Behold the suffering Saviour go,
To sad Gethsemane.
His countenance is all divine;
Yet grief appears in every line.
He cries to God, and cries again,
In sad Gethsemane.
He lifts His mournful eyes above,—
“My Father, can this cup remove?”
He yielded to His Father's will,
In sad Gethsemane;
“Behold Me here, Thine only Son;
And, Father, let Thy will be done.”
Sustained the Son of God in prayer,
In sad Gethsemane;
He drank the dreadful cup of pain,
Then rose to life and joy again.
And scenes of anguish make us weep,
To sad Gethsemane
We'll look, and see the Saviour there,
And humbly bow, like Him, in prayer.
THE LORD IS RISEN!
Around the place where Jesus slept;
'Mid Roman swords and Jewish hate,
Unseen, their loving watch they kept.
Conspire to hold their trust, in vain.
He lives! He lives! Before Him kneel!
The Conqueror now, though once the Slain.
Heard with faint faith the wondrous word;
“Can such deep mystery be true?”
“Where, gardener, hast thou laid my Lord?”
Made the sad woman's heart rejoice;
“Mary,”—she knew her risen Lord;
“Rabboni,”—'t is the Master's voice!
The goal achieved, the victory won.
The Lord is risen! His name adore!
The great atoning work is done!
THE LIVING CHURCH SWEEPS ON.
CENTENNIAL HYMN.
Once sought these holy towers;
Blest be the saints whose voices sweet
Hallowed the sacred hours.
In silvery accents flowed;
So skilled to pray, so skilled to preach,—
Men grandly taught of God.
Their forms from earth are gone;
Through all the century's silent tread,
The Living Church sweeps on.
O'er time and tempest reigns;
His little flock, secure from harm,
Safe on the Rock remains.
Our banners still we raise;
Thy changeless love, the years proclaim,
And swell Thy sounding praise.
A RICH BEQUEST.
In faith this honored shrine?
Where are the godly souls whose deeds
On this fair record shine?
The heavenly Bridegroom's train;
Choice souls!—to them, to live was Christ,
To them, to die was gain.
They served with noble lives;
Loved and lamented! and their faith,
A rich bequest, survives.
To the celestial shore;
The living, loving, keep the path
The leaders trod before.
With undiminished blaze,
Lord, may the light they kindled here
Shine ever to Thy praise.
Their solemn course fulfil,
Smile on the work the fathers wrought,
And bless their children still.
CHRISTIAN EXPERIENCE.
THE PRESENT AND THE ETERNAL.
The home above the skies;
As evening beauty scarcely pales,
E'er morning's glories rise.
Shall change to joy again,
As rainbows crown the passing cloud
With sunlight, after rain.
A shriek of pain or grief,—
'T is but a wave that stirs the air,
A breeze that fans the leaf.
Is hid in dim eclipse;
'T is but a frozen dewdrop when
The frost the rose-leaf nips.
The rose-tree blooms anew;
The shadow passes; burns the sun,
As erst, in heaven's bright blue.
And mortals tread uncertain;
Quick comes the dawn, and beaming morn
Pours sunlight through the curtain.
Love's clasping tendrils sever;
As clinging vines still upward climb,
And, climbing, cling forever.
Blest union, never broken;
Blest land, where tears are never shed,
And farewells never spoken!
We tread towards heaven's high portal,
And yield, unmoved, the things that change,
For flowers and fruits immortal.
DESPONDENCY.
Have shrouded in mourning the sky;
Thick darkness conceals all the plain,
And tempests are hurrying by.
I cry out, with sorrow o'erwhelmed,
While tears from my weeping eyes break;
When shall I with sorrow be done;
Oh, when in Thy likeness awake?
I weep not that loved ones retire;
I grieve not that I am forlorn,
And earthly enjoyments expire.
My Saviour! my Saviour! my God!
Why dost Thou my spirit forsake?
Oh, when shall I throw off my load?
Oh, when in Thy likeness awake?
And howl o'er my pathway of night;
The cloud never moves from the skies,
To show the blest beaming of light.
With madness I rush into sin,
Then grief comes, my poor heart to break;
When shall I be sinful no more?
Oh, when in Thy likeness awake?
Be sweet and delightful to me?
When shall I, my Saviour, obtain
Communion of spirit with Thee?
This darkness and dulness I long,
I long from my bosom to shake;
When shall I to gladness return?
Oh, when in Thy likeness awake?
I wait till Thy glory arise;
I watch at Thy merciful gate,
Till light bursts again from the skies.
Then gladness shall swell in my breast,
No more these complaints shall I make;
But calmly my spirit shall rest,
And I, in Thy likeness, awake.
CONSECRATION.
'T was God who made me look and live.
He saw me to His covenant flying,
And condescended to forgive.
He gave my spirit sweet release;
No more in sorrow left to languish,
My bosom now has perfect peace.
To Heaven's high altar shall I bring?
What sacrifice for such salvation,
To Thee my life, my God, my King?
Forever to be Thine alone;
And let my praise—for Thou art worthy—
Swell in rich numbers to Thy throne.
Till I my course on earth have sped;
Then let me endless life inherit,
Still onward by Thy guidance led.
IMPORTUNITY IN PRAYER.
That a faithful God will hear!
Go? when the Intercessor's voice
Sounds in the Almighty's ear!
Go? When my inmost spirit breaks,
For the longing it hath for Thee!
Oh, no! the Blessed shall not go,
Until He blesses me!
A fountain that cannot fail;
A gentle hand that can wipe the tear,
And soothe the contrite wail.
There is One who can speak the word,
And the blind shall rise and see;
Oh, then, the Blessed shall not go,
Until He blesseth me!
With the Holy One above;
And the earnest prayer ascend
To the God whose name is Love;
Angels may not be sent
In their heavenly ministry,—
But the Blessed shall never go,
Until He blesseth me.
My heart in strong desire;
And God will come—will come
Ere the lamp of life expire.
Thou wilt not desert, I know,
The heart that clings to Thee;
Oh, no! the Blessed will not go,
Until He blesseth me!
FAR FROM EARTH.
From its scenes so fleeting,
Lord, I come to Thee.
From Thy glorious dwelling,
Where heaven's joys are welling,
Saviour, look on me!
Let Thy light
Dispel my night;
Let Thy holy peace come o'er me,
While I bend before Thee.
Worldly good, I seek not,
Here before Thy throne;
Let Thy Spirit, shining,
Come, from sin refining;
Let Thy blood atone.
From my heart
Let earth depart,
Every idol object sever;
In me reign forever.
Freely consecrating
All I have to Thee;
Near Thy cross abiding,
In Thy love confiding,
Longing Thine to be.
Come, then, come,
My heart illume;
Make my soul Thy Spirit's dwelling,
Rebel thoughts expelling.
Grace, my spirit filling;
Lord, the praise be Thine;
When, with free salvation,
Saved from condemnation,
Near Thy throne I shine,
Then the strain
Shall swell again,—
Glory to Thy love, blest Saviour!
Reign, O reign, forever!
PASSING ON, PASSING UP.
Its honors, its trials, its glory, its strife;
Passing on, passing up, as day follows on day,—
Passing on, passing up, and then, passing away.
Like morning stars, lost in the glow of the sun,—
The seal on their virtues, in safety their fame,
No stain on their record, no blot on their name.
The statesman lies low in his manhood's young pride;
Our comrades in toil have passed on before,—
Passing on, passing up, to the heavenly shore.
Still waits for the sickle, the field of the world;
Still high on the tower where the herald has been,
Is emblazoned the call, “Wanted, Christians, and men!”
Go, toil where the Master your labor demands;
And, faithful, toil on, till the close of the day,—
Passing onward and upward, and passing away.
THY WILL, O LORD, BE DONE.
Thy way, not mine;
Patient beneath Thy rod,
Quick to obey Thy nod,
Because Thou art my God,—
Thy way, not mine.
Thy will is mine.
From earthly dross refine,
Shape to the mould divine,
My soul shall ne'er repine,—
Thy will, not mine.
Thy will is mine.
Or Thine, dear Lord, to break;
Thine, or to give, or take,—
Thy will, not mine.
Thy will is mine;
In all, Thy love I see;
Whate'er my lot may be,
I trust my all to Thee,—
Thy will is mine.
YE ARE NOT YOUR OWN.
And fruits and flowers, and stream and wood;
But His, who all with glory fills,
Who bought me with His precious blood!
Its curious work, its living soul;
But His, who for my ransom came,
Slain for my sake,—He claims the whole!
My feet from fierce temptations free!
Oh, not my own, the thought that leaps,
Adoring, blessed Lord, to Thee!
When life, and all its toils, are o'er;
And Thou Thy trembling lamb shalt bring
Safe home,—to wander never more!
ALL THINGS ARE YOURS.
The earth with all her stores,
The glowing sun, the rainbow's dye,—
All present things are yours.
The mansions where they rest;
The sweet, refreshing gales that blow;
The raptures of the blest;
The never-fading flowers;
Heaven's shaded walks and living stream,—
All coming things are yours!
Within your glowing heart;
And many a raptured feeling tells,
He never will depart.
Tho' grief your day obscures,
Soon you shall see heaven's bright abode,
And know that all is yours!
A PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE.
O heart with sorrow swelling,
Pour out thy grief, thy tale of anguish telling;
And love will wipe each flowing tear,
When God is near.
Peace quells the soul's commotion,
And sheds the sweet serene of calm devotion;
And every cloud of grief must fly,
When God comes nigh.
Let every heart receive Him;
Slight not the Spirit's call, nor dare to grieve Him;
“The still small voice,” be wise to hear,
When God is near.
Covet not earthly pleasure,
But seek in heaven an ever-during treasure;
Each tear is seen, and heard each sigh,
When God is nigh.
THERE'S REST FOR THEE.
Fond heart, who life art wasting.
Remit thy eager search of earth-born bliss;
The Saviour seek—true fount of happiness.
Flee to that refuge while thy days are hasting!
Whose heart is all commotion,
The voice of Christ can calm the troubled sea.
Forsake thy sins, and to His covenant flee,
And sweet shall be thy course o'er life's rough ocean.
Whose soul is rent with sadness.
With humble trust thy all to Jesus give;
Give Him thy heart, for Him resolve,
Then, on thy night, shall rise the star of gladness.
Who, weary with delaying,
Shalt haste to Jesus, while He waits to save,
Who for thy life His life so freely gave,—
The sacred call of love at once obeying.
ALL ONE IN CHRIST.
Our earthly homes are far asunder placed;
All one in Christ,—in Him our souls abiding,
O'er the broad earth or on the ocean waste.
And He the cynosure,—the changeless Word.
One Sovereign rules; the watchword of our union,
One faith, one baptism, and one risen Lord.
Or health, or sickness, life, or death, be ours,—
His word shall cheer, His loving hand shall guide us,
His name revive, like incense-breathing flowers.
Like Galilee's wild waves, can quell and calm;
Assuage the tumult, still the tempest's rattle,
For pain give ease, for waiting, victory's psalm.
May roar and dash around with frightful shock;
Held in His leash, light as the air-swept willow,
They lash in vain the Everlasting Rock.
May seem unheeding of Heaven's grand accord;
The rills of life, new channels ever finding,
Shall all converge in Him, our loving Lord.
May fret, and grind, and wear the sufferer down;
But there's a gracious Hand, the faint form clasping,—
The cross to-day; be patient, then the crown.
O'er earth, His heritage, for Him we roam;
With ready hands we toil, and spirit willing,
Till the great Husbandman shall call us home.
Yield to the weary workers needed rest;
Toil waste no more, and sorrow grieve,—no, never,—
The loved disciple on the Master's breast.
FOLLOWING CHRIST.
The path the Saviour trod;
We love the example of our Head,
The glorious Lamb of God.
Our hope and faith rely,—
O Thou, who didst for sin atone,
Who didst for sinners die!
To Thy dear cross we flee.
Oh, may we die to sin, and rise
To life and bliss with Thee.
CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP.
This day with one accord,
Ourselves, with humble faith and joy,
We yield to Thee, O Lord!
One inward life partake;
One be our heart; one heavenly hope
In every bosom wake!
One wisdom be our guide;
Taught by one Spirit from above,
In Thee may we abide.
Thy glorious work begun,—
O Thou, in whom the Church on earth,
And Church in heaven, are one!
Thy sheltering pinions spread,
Nor let the storms of trial beat
Too fiercely on our head!
Our joyful spirits shine,
Shall anthems of immortal praise,
O Lamb of God, be Thine!
JESUS IS PASSING BY.
“THE RESOLVE.”
It warbles sweet and high;
Arise, my soul, the Lord is near,—
Jesus is passing by!
Why should I longer stay?
Come, Saviour, make my spirit whole;
My Saviour, come away!
No more, excuses frame;
No more with earth and sin debate;
No more Thy goodness blame.
I will rebel no more;
From cherished sin, to-day, I part,
And sparing Love adore.
And cast myself on Thee;
Thou art the weary wanderer's home,—
My home, dear Saviour, be!
Glory to God! I sing;
Jesus, the glory all be Thine;
Let all creation ring!
A FORETASTE OF HEAVEN.
All Christian hearts in one;
Blest be the fellowships of earth,—
The joy of heaven begun.
When tears forget to start;
When soul, to happy soul, responds,
And heart, to Christian heart.
Foretaste of bliss above;
Each speaking eye, each throbbing pulse,
Speaks, throbs, with Christian love.
Earth hails the radiant glow;
Light from that world illumines this,
And heaven is felt below.
ABOUNDING MERCY.
AFTER TWO HUNDRED YEARS.
Unchanging His wisdom, immortal His love;
Extolled be His mercy, and hallowed His name,
Who dwelt in the pillar of cloud and of flame.
Our shelter by night, and our glory by day;
The fathers are garnered at rest in the grave,—
But Jesus still triumphs, almighty to save.
Fruit, once sown in tears, of the centuries twain;
The billows no more beat with furious shock;
The Church safely stands on its basis of rock.
More gems light the crown which our Saviour has won;
More trophies of grace to their Lord shall be given,—
Then echo the Jubilee anthem in heaven.
UP! YE SAINTS!
FROM THE GERMAN.
Songs of grateful praise;
While your hearts are warm,
While, in calm or storm,
River, hill, and tree,
You, your God can see,
All the glories showing
Of His love o'erflowing!
Leading on to death;
With the Spirit strove,
Scorned His offered love,
Burst His sacred bands.
All this He forgave you;
How He longed to save you!
Peace about you spread;
O'er the guilty soul
Bade salvation roll.
Cleansed your heart from sin,
Kindly entered in;—
Scattered all your sadness,
Filled your souls with gladness!
Praise your Saviour, God!
Sinful wanderers bring
From their wandering,
Back to Him, who knows
All their wants and woes,—
Joyfully returning
While His love is yearning.
Your celestial state!
Ever ye shall shine,
Clothed in light divine,
Where the ransomed sing,
And glad voices ring,—
While each spirit raises
Never-ending praises!
SALVATION.
What light and joy, where all was dark and blind?
How lovely all creation looks to me!
Tell me, my soul, can this Salvation be?
I cannot make one thought of sadness stay;
From God, in terror, I no longer flee,—
Tell me, my soul, can this Salvation be?
Sweet voice! it rings around me and above;
That glorious God, my spirit sighs to see,—
Tell me, my soul, can this Salvation be?
I love your names; converse with you is sweet;
To dwell in God's dear house, is bliss to me,—
Tell me, my soul, can this Salvation be?
'T is from Thy love these fond emotions flow;
'T is from Salvation's fount, so full and free,
These joys, so pure and grateful, come to me.
“Glory to God!” my happy spirit sings.
No storms of earth my pleasure can impair;
Peace fills my bosom,—peace is rooted there.
THE TRUSTING SOUL.
PSALM XCI.
Beneath Thy shade, Most High,
Shall in Thy love abide;
Thy grace dispels
His fears, when storms are nigh;
Thou dost His footsteps guide.
The Lord from pestilence will guard Thee,
And no temptation shall retard thee;
'T is God that heals.
Thy steadfast soul shall trust;
His truth shall be thy shield,
Tho' death should bring
His thousands to the dust,
And fainting hope should yield;
Tho' dark disease should hover by thee,
No hurtful damp shall e'er come nigh thee,
Nor sorrow sting.
Hath made its refuge God,
No woe shall thee befall;
No poisoned dart,
No desolating rod,
Shall mix thy life with gall;
But angels in their hands shall bear thee
Above the foes that would ensnare thee,
And peace impart.
Hath set on Me his love,
I will from danger save;
And peace shall roll
By him whom I approve,
Its soft and soothing wave,
His voice shall call, and I will hear him,
And in his trouble will be near him
Till joy be full.
BLEST BE THE HOLY BANDS.
Uniting hearts and hands,—
One chain of love;
One life, one hope, one aim;
One faith in one blest Name;
Our Rock, our God, the same,
Below, above.
Washed in one healing flood,
One God we own;
Ours, to accept His word,
Ours, to obey our Lord,
Making, with glad accord,
Our hearts His throne.
Shall blend in one sweet psalm,
Dear Lord, to Thee;
We form one army brave,
As thousand drops, one wave,
All streams, one sea.
Saviour, Thy kingdom bring,
Thy will be done;
Exert Thy glorious might,
Put all Thy foes to flight;
Triumphant, claim Thy right,
And wear Thy crown.
BLEST BE THE BONDS OF CHRISTIAN LOVE.
That bind our hearts in one;
Blest foretaste of the bliss above,—
Our heaven on earth begun.
Alike on His dear name;
One love inspires each throbbing breast,—
Our covenant-vows, the same.
One cloud before the throne;
Our many grateful voices blend
In one harmonious tone.
And grace for grace is given;
So the glad harvest, ripened here,
Shall crown our love in heaven.
A CENTENARY HYMN.
Of labor, prayers, and tears,
And, joyful, sing the precious root,
Strong with its hundred years.
The thickening fibres spread,—
Modelled in heaven, its life and form
With heavenly juices fed.
The outstretched boughs expand;
True to the fathers' early hopes,
It shades and fills the land.
His labor finished well,—
The noble planter calmly rests,
Where first the fruitage fell.
And still its head it rears,
Feels no decay, and shows no loss,
Strong with its hundred years.
And sit beneath the shade;
And hail it, like the tree of life,
Whose leaf shall never fade.
MISSIONARY HYMNS AND ODES.
PRAYER FOR THE HEATHEN.
Thy law we love, Thy name adore!
Let the abundance of the sea,
Be, Lord, converted unto Thee!
Proclaim Thy love, Thy power to save;
From tropic seas to either pole,
Loudly let Heaven's sweet anthem roll!
Thy name shall swell, Thy peace shall brood,
Thy praise shall ring from every voice,
And distant climes in Thee rejoice!
Through man redeemed, shall bless Thy power;
And earth and sea and heaven shall own
Salvation's glorious triumph won!
HERALDS OF SALVATION.
Go, in your heavenly Master's name,
From east to west, from south to north,
The glorious Gospel, wide proclaim!
Go, bid the weary spirit rest;
Go, seek the wanderers through the gloom,
And guide them to the Saviour's breast!
Seek not earth's praise, nor dread its frown;
Nor labors fear, nor trials heed;
Win jewels for Immanuel's crown!
My grace your spirit shall sustain;
Strong is My arm, and sure My word;
My servants shall not toil in vain.
Till God's great reaping-day shall come;
Then, they who sowed in tears shall wake,
And hail the joyful harvest home!
THE MISSIONARY ANGEL.
Angel, onward speed!
Cast abroad thy radiant light,
Bid the shades recede;
Tread the idols in the dust;
Heathen fanes destroy;
Spread the Gospel's holy trust,—
Spread the Gospel's joy!
Angel, onward haste!
Quickly on each mountain's height
Be thy standard placed;
Let thy blissful tidings float
Far o'er vale and hill,
Till the sweetly echoing note
Every bosom thrill!
Angel, onward fly!
Long has been the reign of night,
Bring the morning nigh;
'T is to thee the heathen lift
Their imploring wail;
Bear them Heaven's holy gift,
Ere their courage fail!
Angel, onward speed!
'T is the time decreed.
Jesus now His kingdom takes,—
Thrones and empires fall;
And the joyous song awakes,
“God is all in all!”
GOD BE WITH THEE.
Attend his work with power divine;
Gird him with strength to preach Thy word,
And round him make Thy glory shine!
And put the idol gods to shame;
Touch with Thy fire the lips of clay,
And magnify Thy saving name!
Guide with Thy hand his unknown way;
Scatter the clouds of grief and gloom,
And change the darkness into day!
Tread all the powers of darkness down;
Almighty, re-ascended Lord,
Assert Thy power, and wear Thy crown!
CHRIST'S DISCIPLES DIVIDE THE FIELD.
Before each of the first three verses, the following recitative is rendered.
“And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’”
Where all our kindred dwell,
We hasten, to return no more,—
Our native land, farewell!
Salvation's tidings swell,
Go forth, to dry the mourner's tear,—
Our pleasant home, farewell!
Bound by affection's spell,
We, in God's work, our lives will spend,—
Brothers, a short farewell!
The home of praise and prayer,
To meet earth's gladness, or earth's woe,
For Christ, to do and bear.
In whose fond hearts we dwell;
A noble work shall now employ
All that we are—farewell.
Our songs of parting tell;
Then, till we reach Heaven's holy land,
A sweet, but brief, farewell!
THE MISSIONARY'S FAREWELL.
All thy scenes, I love them well;
Friends, connections, happy country,
Can I bid you all farewell?
Can I leave you,
Far in heathen lands to dwell?
Joys no stranger heart can tell;
Happy home, indeed I love thee,
Can I, can I say, “Farewell”?
Can I leave thee,
Far in heathen lands to dwell?
Holy days, and Sabbath bell,
Richest, brightest, sweetest treasure,
Can I say a last farewell?
Can I leave you,
Far in heathen lands to dwell?
From the scenes I loved so well;
Far away, ye billows, bear me.
Lovely, native land, farewell;
Pleased I leave thee,
Far in heathen lands to dwell.
On the mountains let me tell
How He died—the blessed Saviour—
To redeem a world from hell;
Let me hasten,
Far in heathen lands to dwell.
Let the winds my canvas swell;
Heaves my heart with warm emotion,
While I go far hence to dwell.
Glad, I bid thee,
Native land, farewell! farewell!
LIGHT O'ER THE HILLS.
MISSIONARY HYMN.
The promised morning wakes;
The day foretold by seers of old
In wondrous glory breaks.
And, glad, His call obey,
Chosen in Christ, His name to wear,
A nation in a day.
Ride on, triumphant King!
From land and sea, from earth and heaven,
Thy myriad trophies bring.
To hear and heed Thy call,
Till man, submissive, at Thy feet,
Shall crown Thee, Lord of all!
THY KINGDOM COME, IMMORTAL KING!
MISSIONARY HYMN.
Thy right maintain, Thy power display;
Earth's myriads to Thy footstool bring;
Make all the nations own Thy sway!
Conquer the hosts of death and sin;
Flood the whole globe with holy light,
O kingdom of our God, come in!
In mighty waves on every strand;
Kingdom of God, in triumph wake
O'er every sea, o'er every land!
Speak to earth's woes Thy healing word;
Come, wafted on the wings of love,
Make all the nations own Thee, Lord!
Assume Thy power, ascend Thy throne,
Till universal Nature cries,
“Strike the glad hour,—the work is done!”
PRINCE OF PEACE, OH, COME!
Oh, come, with power divine!
O'er every sea, o'er every land,
Bid the blest Gospel shine!
Each drop, a sparkling gem—
Transfuse with light unnumbered souls,
To grace Thy diadem.
Let willing captives bend,
And men of every name and tongue,
Their hallelujahs blend.
A fragrant censer, swing,
And praise, from every smoking pore,
Like incense sweet shall spring.
Of victory shall resound,—
While hosts to answering hosts proclaim
The Lord, with glory crowned.
TO A DEPARTING MISSIONARY.
O. S. C.
The perfumed breezes play,
And many a fervent prayer is breathed
To speed her on her way.
To Asia's burning shore;
She bears a dearer burden far,
That comes to us no more.
The friends we long have known;
“Farewell,”—perhaps no more to meet,
Till life's bright hours have flown.
Some noble Christian bands,—
Heroes, with pure and loving hearts,
And wise and faithful hands.
In heaven, is ever shed;
We meet again,—no farewell prayer,
In heaven, is ever said.
Where throbs no thrill of pain;
We meet in heaven, where all is bliss,
And never part again.
WELCOME TO A RETURNING MISSIONARY.
Of mortal strife retires to rest,
Glad greetings from a grateful throng,
With heart and voice, pronounce him blest.
Our souls with a high welcome greet;
And thou shalt all thy trophies lay,
Tribute of love, at Jesus's feet.
With loving purpose, strong and brave,
Burning to see the Lord enthroned,
The strayed to seek, the lost to save.
Till all mankind shall heed Thy call,
And earth, redeemed, with glad accord,
Shall crown Thee, King and Lord of all.
THE KING OF GLORY.
Written for Mrs. M. B. Ingalls, of Thongze, Burmah, and sung at her “Burmah Curio Exposition,” held in Boston.
O King with glory crowned!
Gather Thy trophies far and wide,
Wherever man is found.
Lift up Thy sceptred hand;
Thine is the kingdom, Thine the right,—
Ride forth, o'er sea and land.
In waves on waves shall ring,
And shore to shore, and sea to sea,
In answering chorus sing.
In faith and love, shall fall;
And countless souls, redeemed from sin,
Shall call Thee Lord of all.
Through all the weary years,
Shall find, at last, abundant sheaves,
And joy, for toil and tears.
THE LONE STAR.
At the Anniversary of the Missionary Union in Albany, New York, in 1868, it was proposed by some to abandon what was called the “Lone Star” mission in Nellore, India. Dr. Smith, then the guest of Judge Harris, being asked his opinion, in the evening, quietly replied, “You have it here,” handing him the following verses. The poem was read to the audience the next morning, without consulting the author, who happened not to be present. Some wept, some sobbed; and the mission was saved. That mission, soon afterwards developed into the largest band of communicants, under one charge, in the world. The poem entitled Faith's Victory records the fulfilment of the prophetic words of the “Lone Star” poem. At a subsequent visit of the poet and his wife to that mission they were hailed with a joyous welcome. Each planted a palm-tree still respectively called by the native Christians, “Dr. Smith” and “Mrs. Smith.”
Shall spread o'er all the eastern sky;
Morn breaks apace from gloom and night,—
Shine on, and bless the pilgrim's eye.
The light that gleams with dubious ray;
The lonely star of Bethlehem
Led on a bright and glorious day.
And sad reverses, oft baptized;
Shine on amid thy sister spheres:
Lone stars in heaven are not despised.
To dash to earth so bright a gem,
A new lost “Pleiad” from the band
That sparkles in night's diadem?
When none shall shine more fair than thou;
Thou, born and nursed in doubt and fear,
Wilt glitter on Immanuel's brow.
In dust shall bid its idols fall,
And thousands, where thy radiance beamed,
Shall crown the Saviour Lord of all.
FAITH'S TRIUMPH.
The patient ploughman trod,
Turning, with endless care and pains,
The sluggish, barren sod;
And morning came, and daylight went,
And strength and hope were gone,
The tearful eyes grew dim,—and still
The wearying toil went on.
The fainting workman cries,
“Master, how long this iron earth?
How long these brazen skies?”
“Ploughman, toil on in loving trust;
Yield thee to My sweet will.
Faith wins its victories; weary soul,
Believe, and labor still.”
The deeply furrowed field,
To hide and keep the precious grain,—
Seed of a bounteous yield;
And dew and rain and sunny skies
Enriched each seed that fell,
Lost to the eye of man, but God
Knew how to guard it well.
As seasons went and came!
And God forgot the toiler's lot,
And put his hope to shame.
“Vain work,” a timid faith proclaimed;
“Poor toilers, faint and few!
Bury and hide your useless seed;
Bury the sowers, too.”
Its mighty pathway holds,
And, like the budding rose of June,
In beauteous life unfolds.
The bursting germ, the verdant leaf,
Break forth from hidden graves;
And far o'er all the swelling hills,
The joyful harvest waves.
Before Messiah's throne?
Whence the grand chorus that uplifts
Thy name, O Christ, alone?
Whence are the clustering clouds that seek
The same celestial goal?
And one new song holds every lip,
One pulse-beat, every soul.
Born of his toil and pain;
These are the sower's faith and tears,
Transformed to golden grain.
God watched the toilers at their work;
And, when His wisdom willed,
The pledge His loving heart had made,
His loving hand fulfilled.
Thou art the brighest gem,
As once, o'er fair Judea's plains,
The Star of Bethlehem.
Shine on! We learn to pray and wait,
To toil and trust, through thee,—
A star of triumph on Christ's brow,
And faith's high victory.
THE WORD OF GOD GLORIFIED.
O blessed word of God, thy living rayTurns shade to sunshine, light to heavenly day;
Dispels earth's sorrow, calms the troubled breast,
And guides the pilgrim to the endless rest;
Explains life's mystery, and shines through woe,
As threatening clouds with sunset radiance glow;
Breaks with its joy earth's wintry gloom and night,
And turns its sable robes to bridal white.
Go forth, great word of God, thy force display;
Convert the world,—a nation in a day.
Teach China's millions, saved, on God to call,
And crown the living Saviour, Lord of all.
Light, born in heaven, for universal man;
And flashing oars on all the crystal flood
Gleam with the radiance of the word of God.
Rise with thy light, and pour thy healing beam
On all the hills, by every winding stream,
Where the proud Burmans to their idols bow,
Hearing, with hardened neck, and lofty brow,
When men of holy heart and loving speech,
Man's only hope, in earnest accents, preach;
In India's myriad tongues let God's blest words
Proclaim the glory of the Lord of lords;
And all its tribes, in heaven's new song, proclaim
The love and power of Christ's own saving name.
In Afric's central heart new triumphs win;
And bid the Congo, found at last, begin
To seek new hope; to learn, on bended knee,
New lore of truth, and Heaven's blest mystery.
While haughty Moslem sees the crescent pale
Before the cross, whose empire ne'er shall fail,
But make its broad domains through love extend,
One reign o'er all the earth, one kingdom without end.
THE LIVING BREAD.
And made the wild waves calm,
Whose hand, with gentle touch, had power
To heal, like Gilead's balm,—
And draw their hearts to Thee;
And let Thy healing touch redeem
The wanderers of the sea.
Thyself, “The living Bread;”
Arise and let the fainting throngs,
On ship and shore, be fed.
Thy mandate shall obey,
And all the peopled earth, redeemed,
Shall own Thy rightful sway.
JEHOVAH REIGNS.
The day when every nation unto God
Shall swell Salvation's song. From the far South
The scented breezes bring a welcome voice
Upon their wings,—the voice of many tongues,
Asking of Christ and heaven. The western fields,
Far stretching towards the setting sun, send back,
From all the busy hum of gathering tribes,
The call for men of God. The frozen North,
With her sparse nations, and the swarming East,
Have heard that Christ for man was lifted up.
The story, simply told on some stray leaf,
That came, they know not whence, wakens a thrill
Of deep responsive feeling. There's a chord
That answers in the human breast to all
The word of God declares. As for the light
The eye is formed, and for the eye the light,—
So for the heart of man the words of life;
And for those words the human heart was made.
The voice is heard above the roaring storm
Of earth's wild bustle. Many a stolid ear
Erects itself to hear; and many a heart
Cries in its fervor,—“I will go and tell
The dark idolater the way to God.”
And sin will vanish! All earth's withering woes
Will pass away; the Gospel's blessed words,
Borne by its ministers to every land,
Will heal them all. God will be glorified
In human blessedness; and, morn and eve,
The ransomed tribes shall send up to the throne,
From all earth's surface, hallelujahs, sweet,
And loud as many waters. Heaven itself
Will seem descended; earth will seem a heaven.
Cut short the reign of sin; and if not here,
Oh, soon from our bright thrones above the sky,
Let us but catch the strain from all who dwell
Upon the earth—JEHOVAH REIGNS!
“AROUSE YE, O SERVANTS OF GOD!”
His right arm, your strength, and your leader, His rod.
Oh, haste from the north, from the south, to His call;
His cause shall prevail,—He shall reign over all!
Farewell to your dreaming; no longer delay;
Go tell the glad tidings! God's hand points the way.
Go forward! go forward! to conquer or die;
God will make sure the victory.
East and west, and south and north;
Haste to lift the cross on high,
The pledge of victory.
Haste and bear the banner forth,
East and west, and south and north;
Haste to lift the cross on high,
The pledge of victory,—
The cross, and victory!
Go forward with courage, nor doubt ye, nor fear.
Rely on His promise, His oath, and His word;
His Spirit your helper, His Gospel, your sword.
The Prince of Salvation is winning His way,—
Bring crowns for His brow,—joy, joy, for the day!
Go forward! go forward, to conquer or die;
God will make sure the victory.
FROM EARTH TO HEAVEN.
COME UNTO ME.
Long with grief and woe oppressed,
Hear what God, the Lord, hath spoken,
Weary wanderer after rest.
Come to Me, thy sins forsaking,
God's great mercy gladly taking:
With the world and folly part.
Give Me, give Me now, thy heart.
Come, My easy burden bear;
Be thou one among the holy;
Cast away thy dull despair;
I will make thy burdens lighter;
I will make thy pleasures brighter;
Restless as the troubled sea,
Come, forsaking all for Me.
Though My grace was long abused,
Who that yielded to the Saviour,
Asked My love and was refused?
At the throne of mercy bending,
On the arm of God depending,
Come to Me, from labor cease;
And in Me thou shalt have peace.
O LORD, REMEMBER ME!
And curses on the blast,
While things of earth were fading,
And life was ebbing fast,—
The malefactor, praying,
To Christ upon the tree,
Breathed out his spirit, saying,
“O Lord, remember me!”
Though death was drawing nigh;
He heeded not His weakness,
When came the contrite sigh.
He said, while thoughts of pity
Beamed from His dying eyes:
“To-day thou shalt be with Me,
In yonder paradise.”
In life my lot should be,
Or should my days bring sadness,
O Lord, remember me!
Receive my parting spirit,
Where joys unfading rise,
And take me to inherit
A place in paradise.
THE ALL-SUFFICIENT REFUGE.
Of trial drives across my path,
And vainly struggles human power
To stand against its sweeping wrath,
Then shield me by Thy towering head,
Then in Thy clefts, O, let me hide,—
No ill can reach the soul that leans,
Trusting, on Christ the Crucified.
In streams of contrite anguish flow,
And, penitent, my lips confess
How just the hand that strikes the blow,
Then to Thy massive, shelving cliffs,
Then to Thy shadow let me flee;
The dying Christ sustained the shock,
And, Lord, the soul is safe in Thee.
Struck by some sore bereavement, bleeds,
And earthly props and comforters
Have proved themselves but broken reeds,
Then to Thy shelter let me press,
Which stands from age to age the same;
Christ changes not,—the stricken soul
Finds comfort in His healing name.
Of shame for Christ's dear name I bear,
Or suffer loss, because I choose
His seal upon my brow to wear,
Safe in Thy great protection, rest;
Christ is a refuge,—troubled hearts
Find shelter in the Saviour's breast.
My strength grows weak, my spirits fail,
And earthly helpers leave my feet
To tread alone the solemn vale,
Then from each cliff and slope and crag,
Let light, from heaven reflected, shine;
Christ is earth's sun, and Christ alone
Can gild the tomb with rays divine.
Is shattered by the raging wave,
To fragments of the broken wreck,
And vainly hopes his life to save,—
So, in all times of risk or need,
My spirit to Thy shade shall flee;
Secure, in life or death, to find
O Rock of Ages! all in Thee.
THE EVERLASTING SHELTER.
Around the soul fierce conflict wages,
But Christ has power its force to quell,—
No storm can move the Rock of Ages.
Thirst which no earthly good assuages,—
Seek water from the Smitten Rock;
That Rock is Christ,—the Rock of Ages.
Confined to earth, as birds in cages!
Rest for the weary—endless rest—
Lies in Thy shelter, Rock of Ages.
Bring all the light from saints and sages,—
Vain is the quest for peace and rest,
Till sought within the Rock of Ages.
The heart—the curious heart—engages;
Joy, love, and hope surpassing thought,—
All centre in the Rock of Ages.
Where falls no blight, no passion rages,
Sheltered and safe from grief and sin,
O'ershadowed by the Rock of Ages.
Mount by successive steps and stages,
And wait secure the day of God,—
Hid in Thy clefts, O Rock of Ages!
LIFE'S RAPID RIVER.
With channel broad and free,
Its waters rippling ever,
And rushing to the sea,—
So swift our days are ending,
Short is each joy and grief,—
Summer with winter blending,
The longest life, how brief.
As hastes the sun away,
As stormy winds, complaining,
Bring on the wintry day,—
So fast the night comes o'er us,
The darkness of the grave,—
Death ever just before us,
God takes the life He gave.
Laid up in worlds above;
Be thine the highest pleasure,
Thy God, to serve and love;
And use, with wise endeavour,
The talent Heaven has lent,
Lest thou lament forever,
A precious life, misspent.
AS SUMMER CLOUDS.
Are scattered by the winds away;
As flowers, awhile their beauty keeping,
Are withered at the close of day,—
So life is ever, ever flying,
And bringing on the hour of dying;
The cloud departs; the blossom fades;
And death draws on its silent shades.
Its glowing colors melt away;
How vain the busy insect's lightness!
Its life is sweet, but will not stay.
Earth's dearest joys are tinged by sorrow;
The soul may wade in grief to-morrow.
The rainbow melts; the insect dies,—
But man to endless life may rise.
The time for labor soon is gone;
The gentle twilight, fast retreating,
Forsakes the world, and day is done.
So fast the day of life is spending;
So fast the time of duty, ending;
The day retires, the twilight flies;
O man, secure life's noblest prize.
HOW BLEST ARE THEY, IN CHRIST, WHO DIE!
While guardian angels linger nigh!
The dreary days of pain are o'er;
And life ebbs out,
As billows die on the shore.
It comes like summer airs that blow
Across the earth at evening hour,
Or moonlight beams,
That glide along the peaceful bower.
The joyful soul is on the wing.
The captive free; life's labor done,—
Clad in white robes,
The saint appears before the throne.
Peace, where the happy soul has fled;
The Lord hath taken what He gave.
The soul hath rest;
And peace is written on the grave.
TO DIE IS GAIN.
During a severe illness in July, 1892, Dr. Smith wrote the following lines upon small scraps of paper, as he had strength. They were preserved and printed by his son, very tender memories attaching to the family experiences of that summer. Believing that they will bear spiritual comfort to many in other households, the compiler of this volume has the assent of their author to this present use.
Where summer never fades;
To breathe the glorious atmosphere,
Which sickness ne'er invades;
Where tears are never known;
To see the wondrous face of Him
Who sits upon the throne;
In Heaven's high courts to meet;
All kindred spirits, glorified,
To join, in converse sweet;
On love's triumphant wing;
To swell the hymns of mighty praise,
The ransomed armies sing;
To shine as shines the sun;
To hear the Saviour's welcome voice
Pronounce the glad “well done!”
Where all the glories blend,
To know the bliss, the light, the love,
Shall never, never, end!
With joyful speed to fly,
And in God's loving arms to rest,—
Oh, it is gain to die.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN.
There are angels to watch o'er the last weary sleep;
There's a Saviour to soothe every feeling of grief,
And a balm for the spirit that sighs for relief.
And the light of creation burns dimly and fades;
There 's a voice that can speak thro' the gathering shade,—
Saint, thy Saviour is near thee, O, be not afraid.
And the calmness of evening thrills sweet through the breast;
So serene is the hour, when the soul sinks to rest,
And with gladness ascends to the home of the blest.
THE GRAVE.
How bright the flowers that round it wave!
How clear the sky that o'er it shines!
How soft the scene,
When morning dawns, when day declines!
The pilgrim hath a long repose;
No earthly storms the dead awake;
Their sleep is still
As sunset on the peaceful lake.
Set free from earth's delusive glare.
The poor are garnered in the dust,
Alike at rest,
Till comes the rising of the just.
Shall burst, and heaven's bright morning come,
When all that in the earth repose
Shall wake to life,
And Christ shall reign o'er all His foes!
WHERE IS THY VICTORY, O GRAVE!
Prospects of glory dawn bright on thy sadness;
Rising, immortal, thy spirit shall sing,—
Grave, where 's thy victory; Death, where 's thy sting?
Raised in its glory, all beauty displaying,
Body and spirit united shall sing,—
Grave, where 's thy victory; Death, where 's thy sting?
He whom thou lovest will never forsake thee;
Ransomed from guilt and from death, thou shalt sing,—
Grave, where 's thy victory; Death, where 's thy sting?
Triumphs, exulting, Death's dark fetters breaking;
Man in his glorified nature shall sing,—
Grave, where 's thy victory; Death, where 's thy sting?
HEAVEN.
Pain shall not enter there. No thought of woeShall rend the tender heart. The silent tear
No more shall wet the wasting cheek. The eye
Shall not be dimmed with sorrow. Nor shall aught
Be done, or thought, or said, to grieve the soul
That fills the world with sadness, then shall be
Employed in noblest praise. Lover and friend,
And all the dearly cherished of the heart,
Who long have rested in the tomb, shall come
And join the choral strain. From earth aroused,
The voice of harmony that flows so sweet
Around the throne, their tongues shall ever swell.
Then, then, there shall be peace,—a settled calm,
A soft serenity, more gently mild than earth,
With all its gorgeous scenes, can hope to bring
A meet comparison. And all that peace
Shall live and reign a long forever there,
Forever there! and this eternity
Shall make that heaven, a heaven.
RE-UNION IN HEAVEN.
WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN, MEET, NE'ER TO SEVER?
The first verse belonged to an English hymn which was submitted to Mr. Smith by Lowell Mason to complete, as the remaining verses were of a different metre. The last verses were written to conform in spirit and measure with the first.
Meet, ne'er to sever?
When will Peace wreathe her chain,
Round us forever?
Our hearts will ne'er repose,
Safe from each blast that blows
In this dark vale of woes,
Never—no, never.
Pure as life's river?
When shall sweet friendship glow,
Changeless, forever?
Where joys celestial thrill,
Where bliss each heart shall fill,
And fears of parting chill
Never—no, never!
Take us, dear Saviour;
May we all there unite,
Happy forever.
Where kindred spirits dwell,
There may our music swell,
And time our joys dispel
Never—no, never!
Meet, ne'er to sever:
Soon will Peace wreathe her chain
Round us forever:
Our hearts will then repose,
Secure from worldly woes;
Our songs of praise shall close
Never—no, never!
A REDEEMED WORLD.
YOUR THOUSAND VOICES RAISE.
A CENTENARY HYMN.
In symphony of praise,
Clear, sweet and strong;
Tell it with joy unknown,
Tell it in loftiest tone,
Jesus is King, alone,—
The note prolong.
Jesus, the Crucified;
He lives, He reigns.
In Him all glories meet;
Kings bow before His feet;
His foes are mown like wheat;
His throne remains.
Once like a feeble shoot,
Hopeful and brave;
The twig has grown a tree,
Known over land and sea,—
O'er what immensity
Its branches wave!
A hundred years record
Thy victories won;
Hasten the glorious day
When all shall own Thy sway,
And earth and heaven shall say,—
“The work is done.”
MORN OF ZION'S GLORY.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Brightly thou art breaking;
Holy joys thy light is waking.
Morn of Zion's glory,
Ancient saints foretold thee,
Seraph-angels, glad, behold thee;
How they glide,
Far and wide,
Streams of full salvation,
Free to every nation.
Joyful tidings bringing,
All the wilds with flowers are springing!
Morn of Zion's glory,
All the nations hail thee;
Foes to God in vain assail thee;
Peace with men
Dwells again
What celestial pleasure
Swells, a sacred treasure.
Every human dwelling
With the notes of joy is swelling;
Morn of Zion's glory!
Distant hills are ringing,
Echoed voices sweet are singing;
Haste thee on,
Like the sun,
Paths of splendor tracing,
Heathen midnight chasing.
Now the night is risen;
Now thy star is high in heaven.
Morn of Zion's glory,
Joyful hearts are bounding,
Hallelujahs high are sounding.
Peace with men
Dwells again;
Jesus reigns forever,
Jesus reigns forever!
THE GREAT SALVATION.
When her conflicts are no more,
And the Saviour she relies on,
Sits enthroned in regal power.
All in Jesus shall be free;
Kings shall crowd to Heaven's sceptre;
All the earth shall bow the knee.
Prince of Peace, before Thy throne!
Heaven to earth, in love descending,
Views a world at peace,—Thine own.
All the ransomed hosts shall share;
All the holy, all the lowly,
Shall the crown of glory wear.
Then shall be in Christ made one;
Gained in full, the Great Salvation,—
Life and joy immortal, won.
THE SUCCESS OF THE GOSPEL ASSURED.
THE MORNING LIGHT IS BREAKING.
This Hymn, and the National Hymn, “My country, 't is of thee,” were written while the author was at Andover Theological Seminary, in 1832.
The darkness disappears;
The sons of earth are waking
To penitential tears.
Each breeze that sweeps the ocean,
Brings tidings from afar
Of nations in commotion,
Prepared for Zion's war.
In many a gentle shower,
And brighter scenes before us,
Are opening every hour;
Each cry, to Heaven going,
Abundant answers brings,
And heavenly gales are blowing,
With peace upon their wings.
Before the God we love!
And thousand hearts ascending
In gratitude above;
While sinners, now confessing,
The Gospel call obey,
And seek the Saviour's blessing,—
A nation in a day.
Pursue thy onward way;
Flow, thou, to every nation,
Nor in thy richness stay;
Stay not, till all the lowly
Triumphant reach their home;
Stay not, till all the holy
Proclaim, “The Lord is come!”
JESUS EVER REIGNS.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Songs of grateful praise;
Let creation round,
Ring the joyful sound;
Let each happy voice,
In the Lord rejoice;
Jesus, now adore,
Sovereign, evermore;
He who loved our souls,
He whose mercy rolls
O'er our guilty stains,—
Jesus ever reigns.
Who our sorrows bore;
Now He mounts the throne,
Worthy, He alone,
Evermore to wear,
Wreaths of glory there;
See the rainbow shine,
Pledge of love divine;
See it o'er His head,
Rays of splendor shed!
Earthly glory wanes;
Jesus ever reigns.
Thou, the Prince of Peace,
Thou, Almighty Word,
Thou, Incarnate Lord,
Praised in melody,
Poured from thousand tongues,
Swelled in thousand songs.
Worthy is Thy name,
Sin-atoning Lamb,
Thou, who once wast slain,
Evermore to reign.
Praise to Christ, our King;
Praise to Him whose love
Leads our souls above;
Praise to Him whose power
Guards us hour by hour.
Sing, ye choirs on high;
Angel bands, reply,
Mortals, old and young,—
Let each joyful tongue,
Join the lofty strains,—
Jesus ever reigns.
THE LORD IS COME.
Breaks forth at last, and fills
The glowing sky;
See, a new dayspring born
Kindles a holy morn,
Beaming on lands forlorn,
While shadows fly.
Wide let the echo fly!
His flag, unfurled,
Shall tell new wonders done.
Shall boast new triumphs won,—
His, the Immortal crown,
The conquered world.
Welcome the hosts, new-born,
Praise and adore.
Dispersed the heathen's gloom,
Thousands to Christ have come;
In Christ there still is room
For thousands more.
Thy promise will not fail;
Thy crown assume.
Speak from Thy throne on high,
Bid the glad tidings fly,
And heaven and earth reply,
“The Lord is come!”
TRIUMPHS OF THE GOSPEL.
What songs of joy come swelling,
Among the angel bands,
Along heaven's sacred dwelling,
When penitents return,
When dying souls revive,
Forsake the way of death,
And learn for God to live!
What praise and adoration
To God the Saviour wake,
When lost ones seek salvation!
The sacramental host,
That spreads from sea to sea,
While the glad numbers grow,
Sing their fresh Jubilee.
Though earth's last days are wasting,
When happy converts come,
Like doves, to Jesus hasting!
Ride on, Thou conquering Prince,
Till all the world obey,
And all the ransomed earth
Yield to Thy blessed sway.
SPEED ON THY VICTORY, MIGHTY KING!
The world awaits Thy call!
Swiftly Thy glorious kingdom bring,
And reign Thou, Lord of all.
The stars, the sky, the sea;
And we are in Thy image made,—
Our all belongs to Thee.
Bid sin and tumult cease,
And Thy blest banner float, unfurled,
Above a world at peace.
Triumphant Saviour, Thou,—
Till the fair crown of all the earth
Shall glitter on Thy brow.
THE PRINCE OF SALVATION IN TRIUMPH IS RIDING.
And glory attends Him along His bright way;
The news of His grace on the breezes are gliding,
And mortals are owning His sway.
With splendors unknown the horizon they fill;
The wretched they soothe, and the dark they enlighten,
And gladness their beamings distil.
Let thousands of thousands submit to Thy reign,
Like doves at their windows, entreat for Thy favor,
And follow Thy glorious train.
The voices of myriads tuned to Thy praise,
And heaven shall re-echo the song of salvation,
In rich and melodious lays.
AMERICA'S CHRISTIAN CENTENNIAL.
Written under the conviction that the progress of Christ's Kingdom during the First Century of American Independence was typical of its supreme extension during the new century, just begun.
Of scenes that fill the mighty past!
The sires that sowed, the sons that reap;
The trembling first, the hopeful last!
The envy of a hundred lands;
The nation, nurtured into life,
Founded in faith, in glory stands.
With fadeless bloom our history wreathe;
Like petals of some fragrant flower,
A sweet aroma still they breathe.
Where once at heathen shrines they fell,
Thousands have hailed the rising star,
Thy radiant star, Immanuel.
Freedom's unsullied banners wave;
No tyrant bids us bow the knee,
No zealot rules, nor toils a slave.
In wondrous vista lie outspread!
Harvests from seed in weakness sown,
Life, springing from the mighty dead.
Whose fiat bade creation be,
Who spake, and echoing chaos heard,
And light broke forth in majesty.
We wait the Master's high behest;
In filial trust, the Master's will
Appoints our toil, provides our rest.
And sin from all its thrones be hurled,
And earth in humble reverence bend
To Him who rules a ransomed world.
Shall see her idol temples fall,
And He, whose star o'er Bethlehem beamed,
Sit, crowned, triumphant, Lord of all.
THE DOXOLOGY OF REDEMPTION.
Redeemed from ills without, within!
Redeemed! what new light gilds the skies!
What glories on the soul arise!
Reached man's abyss from Heaven's high throne;
Like some new star its radiance beamed,
A new key rang,—redeemed! redeemed!
The mighty tide of praise shall wake;
Thy love, Lord, like the unmeasured sea,
Shall waft a world, redeemed, to Thee.
Its tribute to the King of kings;
Redeemed! earth's million voices raise
One sounding anthem to His praise.
4.
Part IV.
MISCELLANEOUS HYMNS AND ODES.
INTERVIEWS WITH NATURE.
THE FLAG IN NATURE.
All Nature sings wildly the song of the free;The red, white, and blue float o'er land and o'er sea,—
The white, in each billow that breaks on the shore;
The blue, in the arching that canopies o'er
The land of our birth, in its glory outspread;
And sunset dyes deepen and glow into red.
Day fades into night, and the red stripe retires;
But stars, o'er the blue, light their sentinel fires.
And though night be gloomy, with clouds overspread,
Each star holds its place in the field overhead;
When scatter the clouds, and the tempest is through,
We count every star in the field of the blue.
FLOWERS.
God's smiles on earth, made visible to men;
Light, prisoned up in form; honey, enhived;
Fair Paradise, once lost, restored again.
Earth's innocents, that climb around our bowers;
Meek, brilliant eyes, that look so sweetly up,
Like raindrops, sparkling after summer showers.
Polished and set, by more than human skill;
Lessons that speak, though silent, to the eyes,—
Vocal in vale and plain, on ridge and hill.
Wise, loving, pitying, glorious, ever near,
That bid us trust the ever great and good,
Whose mercy wakes and crowns the rolling year.
Living, to die,—a sweet, but passing story;
Dying, to live when spring renews its day,—
The precious emblems of immortal glory.
FLOWERS IN WINTER.
As if the summer's breath
Were wafted o'er their birthplace,
And not the chill of death!
I hail the joyful emblem,—
Fit cheer for hours of gloom,—
Earth has its wintry trials,
But 't is not all a tomb.
To the sighing of the gale;
I watch the heaping snowdrifts,
And hear the rattling hail;
And I think, with grateful spirit,
What a glorious God is ours,
Who is mighty in the tempest,
And gentle in the flowers.
But every smiling cup
Breathes forth such charming fragrance,
And looks so sweetly up,
I forget the shortened daylight,
And the wintry chill and gloom,
And heaven seems hovering near me,
With its everlasting bloom.
Of the path that mortals tread,
In the land of grief and partings,
Of the mourning and the dead,
Softening the painful blow,
Leaves joy, to gild our sorrow,
Like flowers in time of snow.
And we laid them down to rest,
In their still retreats are sleeping,
With the peace of Jesus blest;
Like the blossom from the tuber,
Like the harvest from the grain,
They will spring,—the time approaches,—
To their lovely life again.
Where the soft airs ever last,
Where they never feel the fury
Of the winter's bitter blast;
Nor frosts, with chilling fingers,
Nor griefs, with scalding tear,
Where summer ever lingers,
And flowers bloom all the year.
A SONG OF SPRING.
Welcome, the dew and rain;
Welcome, the merry birds that sing;
Welcome, the bursting grain.
The rainbows, and the showers;
Welcome, the early flowers that wreathe
Their beauty round our bowers.
Melodious music rings;
Matin and vesper swells and floats,—
Nature's sweet offerings.
In beauty from its cell,
Tuneful, or still, one accent wakes,—
“God has done all things well.”
Swell the sweet, grateful song,
And wave, and rock, and rippling rill,
The echoing strain prolong.
THE LITTLE CRICKET.
Amid the night dew,
While the moon shines so brightly,
I'll listen to you.
I love your dull chirping,
Your shrill monotone;
You soothe, with your music,
This bosom so lone.
That mournfully play,
When the red leaves of autumn
Look gaudy and gay,
Tells of joys now departed,
No more to return,
Of summer hopes blasted,
Of fair flowers torn.
Will quickly be still,
When the tempests of winter
Roar loud on the hill;
But I go when the storm comes,
Where all my friends dwell,—
No more shall my heart say
To gladness farewell!
WILD STRAWBERRIES.
Where the sunny streaks are breaking,
And the birds their songs are waking,
Where the mossy flowers repose,
There the pretty strawberry grows.
Say who made your cheek so shining,
Like the crimson sun declining,
And who made your pleasant smell,—
Tell me, pretty strawberry, tell?
God, your ruddy color brightens,
And your charming odor heightens.
Leafy pines, and firs so straight,
Whisper, “Children, God is great.”
THE CANARY AT SEA.
On the Cunard Steamer Abyssinia, far from land, a canary bird made its home as contentedly as if in its native forest. The poet has given to the incident that spiritual lesson which has marked his lifework as a lover of Nature, in close companionship with Nature's Master, the Creator of all.
Where wild winds moan,
And billowy waves, like pulses, beat
Their monotone,—
How tread thy little feet, so gay,
Devoid of fear?
How is thy heart so brave and bold,—
A stranger here?
Are far away;
No leafy bower, no warbled tone,
Invites thy stay.
Sea here, sea there, sea everywhere,
Wave chasing wave,—
In peril's hour, O, who has power
To shield or save?
In calm and storm,
Will shelter and protect from harm
Thy tiny form;
Cling to the refuge, and be safe
From wave and gale,
And o'er the ocean's boundless waste
Securely sail.
A dangerous sea,—
Our only refuge, Son of God,
We find in Thee;
Led captive by no lower aim,
To Thee we cling,
And rest in perfect faith and hope
Beneath Thy wing.
And lithest limb,
Thy trust is in this gallant ship;
But ours, in Him.
Thy hope may founder through some leak,
Or stormy gale;
Ours, anchored to the throne of God,
Can never fail.
TREE-PLANTING, OR ARBOR DAY.
Fanned by each fragrant breeze,
Lovely they stand.
The song-birds o'er them trill;
They shade each tinkling rill;
They crown each swelling hill,
Lowly or grand.
Plant them where children play,
And toilers rest;
On every sunny swale;—
Whether to grow or fail,
God knoweth best.
Plant them with earnest care,—
No toil is vain;
Plant in a fitter place,
Where, like a lovely face
Set in some sweeter grace,
Change may prove gain.
All things on Him depend,—
His loving care
Clings to each leaf and flower,
Like ivy to its tower,—
His presence and His power
Are everywhere.
THE ELOQUENCE OF NATURE.
Go ye, and read at length the mystic loreWhere some Niagara's dark waters roar.
Draw nearer; the tremble at the amazing plan;
See how they scorn the pygmy works of man.
Admire the swelling, grand, foreboding hush,
Where they are gathering for the awful rush
That bears them thundering down the dizzy steep,
To mingle, boiling, in the foamy deep.
List to the rumbling of the mighty floods,—
Their eloquence is but the type of God's;
Or, note the tempest's wrath, the lightning's glare,
The rainbow's image on the cloudy air,—
Bright, beautiful, divine, too fair to stay,
Where all created beauty fades away.
Think how the whirlwind's wrath, the thunder's pride,
Terrific, echoing from the mountain's side—
Suns, planets, comets, on their pathway rolled,
Like brilliant, burning, moving orbs of gold;
The summer's radiant glow, mild autumn's ray,—
All, all, the great Creator's might display.
Each flower that sheds its fragrance on the air
Shows some divinest signet fastened there;
Exalts the soul above this meanest clod,
And bids us see and hear a present God,
Whose voice of majesty no words confine,—
An eloquence eternal, deep, divine.
RUSTIC SCENES.
FROM THE GERMAN.
MY HUMBLE HOME.
Humble is my little cottage;Yet it is the seat of bliss.
Anger never dwells among us,
Only peace and happiness;
Kindness there you always see,
And the sweetest harmony.
PLEASURES OF NATURE.
In the green fields in May,
Beneath the tall trees,
Or after school hours,
To pluck the sweet flowers,
And feel the fresh breeze!
In the murmuring brook,
And hear its soft sound!
How happy are we!
How nimble and free,
We skip o'er the ground!
Now comes the dark night;
All still is the vale.
We'll go to our rest,
Nor wake till redbreast,
Renews his soft tale.
THE PLEASURES OF INNOCENCE.
Hovering o'er the verdant mountain,
Smiling in the glassy fountain;
Bliss is hovering, smiling, everywhere.
Active in the shady bower,
In the little modest flower;
Tender love is active everywhere.
In the tall tree-top it lingers,
In the nest of feathered singers,—
Innocence unseen is ever near.
From the green bank decked with flowers,
Sunny hills, and pleasant bowers,—
Pleasure echoes, echoes far and near.
See the blossoms all unfolding,
Each its beauteous station holding,—
Up and weave us now a flowery crown.
Sings the cuckoo by the river,
In the breeze the young leaves quiver,—
Go ye forth and join the May-day throng.
MY DELIGHT.
And to see the pleasant sun,
And soft twilight;
Through the meadow and the grove,
With my nimble feet to rove,—
Is my delight.
The fair sky so bright and blue,
And clouds of white;
And some lovely song to sing,
While I hear the echo ring,—
Is my delight.
Through the flowery meads I stray,
All fair and bright,
There to pluck a rose for you,
Bright and sparkling with the dew,
Is my delight.
Shaken by the gentle breeze,
By morning light,
Little Robin there to hear,
Singing praises without fear,
Is my delight.
ON WAKING IN THE MORNING.
The sun has awakened the insects' soft hum;
The sheep to the fields go,
The men to the meadow,
And all to their labor till daylight grows low.
The beauties of Nature are sweeter than dreams.
Your downy bed leaving,
Go forth till the evening
Its fragrant air breathes, and the night-warblers sing.
THE RAIN.
On the mountain's side;
From the clouds dispensing
Blessings far and wide!
How the cooling shower
Brightens every flower,
Makes the sun-parched land
With fresh blooms expand.
See the painted bow,
O'er the distant hilltop,
All its colors show.
God is ever faithful;
Let us all be grateful,
For the rain and dew,
And the cloudless blue.
PRAYER BEFORE SCHOOL.
Father, we
Sing to Thee
Praises never ceasing.
Waked from rest,
Neatly drest,
Humbly now be kneeling.
Mercy we
Seek from Thee;
Make our minds discerning.
Feel Thy power,
Every hour,
From sin to release us.
THE SPRING IS COME.
Are clothed anew in lovely green,
And purling streams and mossy fountains,
And blooming flowers adorn the scene;
Oh, listen to the insect hum,—
The spring, the spring is come!
In the fresh earth and brilliant sky;
The warm sun on the earth is beaming;
And heaven is full of melody.
And listen to the insect hum,—
The spring, the spring is come!
Go to the rich and verdant fields;
While morning glows in all its fulness,
Go taste the joys the spring-time yields,
And listen to the insect hum,—
The spring, the spring is come!
THE GARDEN.
Where cowslips and snow-drops and buttercups grow.
And get us a bunch of the red and the white.
To weave us next May-day a flowery crown.
Our tasks we will learn and our songs we will sing.
SPRING FLOWERS.
Softest smiles it wears.
Lovely flowers are springing;
Happy birds are singing,
On the fair green trees,
Waving in the breeze.
Many flowers are found;
But so modest keeping,
On the green banks sleeping,
By the rivulet,
Seek the violet.
With its fragrance there!
Lovely, little flower!
Bending to the shower,
May we learn of thee
Sweet humility.
THE THREE FLOWERS.
In Nature's wild, flourishing garden,
On mountains and hillsides, in forests and vales,
As if playing watcher and warden;
Your beauties, sweet flowers, are rich and divine;
They bloom in the field; in the nosegay they shine.
Like glittering beads, strung in order;
Its blossoms like dew-drops, the daughters of night,
Gem the fields, and the green roadsides border;
Wherever its clear yellow flowers you see,
Its honey-cup swells with the food of the bee.
In green, clasping leaflets half-covered,
The spring-meadow fills with its fragrant perfume,
Where the red-breast, by morning-light, hovered;
The image of mildness and modesty, too,
Is the violet-flower, of heavenly hue.
Beneath the noon-sunlight so splendid,
The flower-de-luce, with its triple bell, smiles,
Till the days of the spring-time are ended;
'T is sacred to friendship and sacred to love,
The emblem of union in heaven above.
A SONG IN THE WOODS.
Hand in hand we love to rove,
While in every shady tree,
Birds tune up their melody;
Let us join their happy song,
And the harmony prolong.
And the flowers that near them spring;
Of the trees above our head,
And the grass on which we tread;
Of the little verdant hills,
Purling brooks, and running rills.
Ever quivering in the breeze,
Send forth each a separate sound
To the echoing woods around,—
Sounds of praise to Him who made
Pine-clad hills and forest-glade.
Freshened by the evening showers,
Bright by morning, bright by night,
When comes, and when fades, the light
In the cool and leafy grove,
Hand in hand we love to rove.
THE HUNTSMAN'S SONG.
The morning hoar-frost on the cold earth glistens;
The bleak wind whistles so fresh and cold,
The huntsman arouses and listens;
The horn is winding so clear and shrill,
It calls him abroad to the sunny hill;
Trarah! Trarah!
The sunny hill,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
The winter's breeze makes strong his very marrow.
Up fly the birds—and his eye is clear;
He seizes the sharp gleaming arrow,
And scours the hillside where waved the corn,
Led on by the voice of the hunting-horn.
Trarah! Trarah!
The hunting-horn,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
It calls away,—the sound of sport and pleasure.
The hounds are ready; away we go!
The evening our frolic shall measure.
The horn is winding; the game is here;
And the echo salutes us far and near,—
Trarah! Trarah!
The game is here;
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.
Fresh dews and summer showers,
Green grass and blooming flowers,
Brighten the pleasant lawn.
Come, hear the soft birds singing;
Come, hear their music ringing
At crimson eve and morn.
The land of sweetest fragrance
Where pleasure throws its radiance,
And music floats along.
Where bloom the tasselled flowers,
And spring, with freshened flowers,
Raises its insect hum.
THE LITTLE WEAVER.
My little wheel keeps whirling, and round me kitty plays.
My life so calm and happy, so bright and active is,
There is no joy I wish for to crown my cup of bliss.
I always rise to labor when day is growing light;
But though I am so busy, I'm sure I do not care;
They rather should be pitied, who always idle are.
I feel all day so happy, so lively is my song.
My work, it never wearies, but gives me health, you see;
And I am always cheerful,—oh, don't you envy me?
Which from beyond the ocean the rich man's vessel brings;
My turnips and potatoes I am content to eat;
Nor will I ever murmur for want of food more sweet.
THE LITTLE STAR.
With soft and tender light;
How pleasant is its radiance!
'T is gone—and now 't is bright.
Where over me it stood,
Where doves all day were cooing,
Over the thick green wood.
Up in the brilliant blue;
For to its mighty station,
It soon would come, I knew.
OUR PLEASANT VILLAGE.
Our village in the evening,
While crimson clouds and streaks of gold
Their fairy forms are weaving!
How peaceful is the dewy air!
No place on earth is half so fair.
The parting sunbeams lighten;
And autumn's scarlet-colored leaves,
Touched by the red rays, brighten.
Oh, see our pretty village there!
No place on earth is half so fair.
It only tips the towers
That rise above the temple roof;
And now the darkness lowers.
But still our village glimmers there;
No place on earth is half so fair.
SALUTATION TO THE VILLAGE.
Trees, that spread your leafy hands!
Flowers, clothed in softest beauty,
Lovelier than eastern lands!
Village! home of every treasure,
Thee we sing in strains of pleasure;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!
Make our troubled passions cease;
And they thy bright and purling rivers
Fill our souls with hallowed peace.
Village! tender thoughts promoting,
Like the clouds in azure floating;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!
Near thy bright and glassy streams,
Free from care we love to wander,
Cheered by summer's radiant beams:
Scenes of sweetest recollection,
Sacred to the soul's reflection,
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!
FAREWELL TO THE VILLAGE.
Ever round our cottage flowed;
Beauteous as the western evening,
Lovely as the sunlit cloud;
Peaceful as the vesper bell,—
Thee we bid a long farewell.
Fare thee well! Fare thee well!
Which have shielded oft our head;
Still be green, ye sunny meadows;
Fields with brightest flowers bespread,—
Scenes, where oft the reapers' song
Swelled in echoes sweet and strong.
All farewell! All farewell!
Shall revive within our breast,
And the lovely recollection
Soothe, like visits from the blest.
Often to our tearful eyes
Shall thy cherished image rise.
Fare thee well! Fare thee well!
HAIL, BETHLEHEM'S STAR!
The morning star appears;
Its glowing rays a splendor cast
On morning's dewy tears.
Come, let us join in cheerful praises,
While Nature her sweet pæan raises;
The morning star appears.
Since first thy beams were given,—
Like golden chains that firmly bind
The distant earth and heaven.
Oh, praise the Lord, as on the morning
When angels sang the lovely dawning
Of Bethlehem's star in heaven!
Let praises loudly ring;
Let melody the soul enchain,
And all creation sing.
Hail, Bethlehem's star, thy light, abiding,
Thro' stormy life our path still guiding,
To heaven our feet shall bring.
NATIVE LAND, SO LOVELY.
Through the forest green;
Crimson clouds are wreathing,
In the sky, serene.
Relics of the past,
In the soft breeze waving,
Roaring in the blast,
Bloom in Freedom's light;
Though the tempest rages,
Stand in all your might.
Bright thy beauties are;
Long may noon beam o'er thee,
Let thy night be far.
Let the clear light glow,
Clearer than the mid-day,
On the spotless snow.
SUMMER EVENING.
Bright wreaths is weaving,
Round vale and hill;
The dewy flowers
Perfume the bowers,
And all is still.
The birds rest lightly
Among the trees.
The reapers, singing,
Are homeward bringing
Their yellow sheaves.
The little rover
Must be at rest.
Till purple morning
Awakes the dawning,
In glory drest.
VERSES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.
FREEDOM ADVANCES.
Written January 1, 1829, while a student in Harvard College, as “A Carrier's Address” for the “Christian Watchman,” under the conviction that civil and religious liberty had gained a new impulse in Europe and the East.
The rude car of winter sweeps madly along;
The bright crystal streamlet no longer is flowing;
And the woodland has echoed the last warbled song:—
But seraphim bands all their lyres are waking;
The tempests are wafting a heavenly song;
The streams of salvation their barriers are breaking;
The heathenish nations their gods are forsaking,—
All earth is uniting the strain to prolong!
The light of the gospel had faded away;
And lordly oppression her sceptre was wielding,—
A merciless tyrant, a merciless sway!
I woke,—and around me the dark clouds were flying;
A fair star had risen to lead on the day;
The mourners in Zion no longer were sighing,—
But wreaths of salvation her daughters were twining,
And onward advanced the triumphal array!
The noon-day approaches beyond the blue wave.
Round Heaven's fair banners the nations are meeting,—
The poor and unlearned, the rich and the brave;
The far distant gun of the Moslem is rolling.
The tyrant is fallen,—all dark is his grave!
The deep, heavy knell of oppression is tolling,
And religion beams forth, every passion controlling.
Peace, peace to the mourners and joy to the slave!
The angel in heaven pursues his career;
The heart of the widow with gladness is bounding;
And the fatherless child weeps the penitent's tear.
And thou—wilt thou aid in the work of salvation,—
Give thy bread to the hungry; the heart-broken cheer?
Wilt thou send the blest story from nation to nation,
And improve the brief day of thy mortal probation?
Then, well cries the Watchman,—A Happy New Year!
WOMAN.
Read at a social gathering in Boston, where a Christian woman very acceptably occupied the chair, as presiding officer.
Grand in their gorgeousness, and great as good,
The mighty ocean with its ceaseless flow,
Expansive sky above and sea below,—
Were all this grandeur in the world alone,
Without a veil of beauty o'er it thrown,
As o'er old ruins verdant ivies twine,
As near the crags, the humble wild flower sleeps,
Or gentle ripples smile on ocean deeps?
When thunders roll and flashing lightnings glare?
Did not, with voice of love, God's matchless will
Quell the wild tumult, and say, “Peace, be still!”
And bid the rainbow with its lovely form
Wreathe by its light the background of the storm?
The beauty shows the grandeur, grander still.
What were this hour of joy and festive cheer,
Though faces meet us which our hearts revere;
What were this scene, brilliant with church and state,—
If, met in conclave, for some grave debate,
Man sat, alone, sombre and grave and wise,
Like old gnarled oak beneath the breezy skies?
The higher will that judges and decides,—
Blessed be God!—we own the chairman's power;
But still, to-night, 't is woman rules the hour.
WOMAN, A “SIDE-ISSUE.”
Read at the Social Union, Boston, October 26, 1868.
It has been said, “Whatever be the beauty and charms of woman, let her not value herself too highly. For it is undeniable that, in the work of creation, man was the principal, and woman only a ‘side-issue.’”
Like a self-vaunting Turk:
Woman was but an after-thought;
But man, God's noblest work.
As once in Eden's bowers;
For woman holds the highest place
In this fair feast of ours.
Their higher work fulfil;
But woman, in a gentler sphere,
Labors with loving will.
Proud of our rank as men;
But for our mothers, where had we,
Creation's lordlings, been?
To pluck from Pharaoh's hand,
The ark that saved the infant chief
Was by a woman planned.
Armed with the warrior's mail,
He failed; and through his heathen head,
A woman drove the nail.
Where heathen banners waved,
No hostile hand could reach the spies
A woman's wit had saved.
By hungry ravens fed;
Till woman built his little room,
And feasted him with bread.
At noon beside the well;
And listening ears absorbed each word
Of love that from Him fell.
Of worldly wit and lore;
A woman blessed His words that day;
A woman owned His power.
His gracious words to hear;
And one received Him, tired and faint,
With love and festal cheer,—
Their deeds forgotten be!
E'en the ascending Conqueror fixed
His gaze on Bethany.
Furnished with ointment sweet,
A woman bathed, perfumed, and kissed
The Saviour's sacred feet.
The precious fragrance strewed?
“Trouble her not,” the Master said,
“She hath done what she could.”
With cruelty inhuman;
And one denied His blessed name,—
Both men, but never woman.
With smirk and shout and yell,
The pathway where the Son of God
Beneath His burden fell.
Hid, trembling and afraid;
Only the women near their Lord
Lingered and wept and prayed.
In agony He hung,
The precious word “mother” was heard
Last lingering on His tongue.
Of the Great Captive's tomb;
Run, loving John, before the rays
Of morn the skies illume!
The garb the Saviour wore,—
But women at the sacred spot
Had worshipped long before.
Like a new sunlight burst,
And grew apace, on its fair roll
A woman's name stood first.
Beyond the mighty sea,
Spain's nobles doubted if at all
Such wondrous things could be.
“No funds to spare to-day!”
She sold her jewelled rings to send
Columbus on his way.
Saw glimmerings in the skies;
America was sought and found,—
A woman's enterprise!
Far o'er the southern wave,
The proto-martyr of our work,
The heathen world to save.
Still breathes like sweet perfume;
The sacred dust of woman fills
That lonely, glorious tomb.
Who, through the stormy wave,
Safely conveyed the ship of state,
Patient and wise and brave;
When shall we see such other?
But what had honored Lincoln been
But for his Christian mother?
On every banner flaunt,
But for the pious woman's name
Who made him U. S. Grant.
Cry “woman”—“Need n't heed her!”
But history and love reply,
“Oh, no, she is the leader.”
As once in Eden's bowers;
But woman holds the highest place
At this fair feast of ours.
THE GOOD AND GREAT MAN.
Who, worthy of the highest fame?
And who, among the sons of men,
Shall hold the most distinguished name?
Who rules his thoughts, who rules his will;
Resists temptation's fiercest flood,
Unsullied keeps his honor still;
Who gently soothes the sufferer's pain;
Pities the tempted ones who fall,
And sets them on their feet again;
Purely as angels' feet might tread;
And love and faith combine to weave
A glorious halo round his head;
The ways the pious fathers trod;
Who shuns the intoxicating cup,
And loves his country and his God,—
To mortals due, to mortals given;
Be owned, an honor to his race,
And wear the crown of life in heaven.
DANGEROUS PRECOCITY.
Leaping the rigors of parental rule—
Deem all control a bore, and vote it harsh;
Ape foreign style, and sport the curled mustache;
Plunge with a zest, in nonsense and in sin,—
Hair-oil without, and hair-brained skulls within:
The pomp, external, affluently shed,
Proclaims they have within an empty head.
How eloquently weakness tells its tale!
Like ships that tower aloft, with wind in every sail.
Must learn the magic of some mystic words
From learned juntos, and aspire to speak
Some hidden mystery, in classic Greek.
They wear the secret charm upon the breast,
Like evening's star upon the blushing west.
Too frank, too good, the luscious truth to hide,
They choose to wear the symbol all outside;
And when these blooming bowers of hope they leave,
Commit the secret to their sister Eve.
“A LITTLE UPPISH.”
The style of modern days;
For young America delights
In such peculiar ways.
Aged just twenty moons,
Feels very “uppish,” when he sports
His boots and pantaloons.
Just entering her “teens,”
Is “uppish,” as if born to sit
With duchesses and queens.
Sits on the household throne,
Her dear liege lord she sometimes snubs,
Alas, too “uppish” grown.
Be good as any other?
Oh, yes; when, “uppish” grown, she thinks
She's wiser than her mother.
With such rich grace endued?
She feels the thrill in all her veins
Of her strong mother's blood.
'T is but a fault of youth;
And grace will cure it, wait a while,
Through the blest power of truth.
Thank God, they pass away,
As clouds of night and gloom withdraw
Before the opening day!
Read at a Social Union, Springfield, Mass., when a young offshoot church was characterized, by Rev. Dr. G. B. Ide, pastor of the mother church, as “a little uppish.”
THESE MODERN TIMES.
Old truth retires, and feeble falsehood comes;
Fiction and fancy, all the live-long day,
And airy nothings, are the things that pay.
As rise balloons, because their filled with gas.
Men scorn the wisdom of the hoary sage,
And eloquently boast this learned age:—
Whose greatest want is want of common sense;
The gaping crowd admires each changing scene,
As some new wonder,—for the crowd is green.
And silks and ribbons, with their rainbow dye,
Or flutter in the air, a graceful show,
Or sweep the dusty thoroughfares below.
Gay as the butterflies of summertide,—
With equal beauty, equal lightness fraught,
As little burdened with the weight of thought.
Perchance, the victims, too, of something worse.
An eloquence of manner often tells,
Some things have naught but tongues, besides church bells.
A MERRY HOUR.
A. E. Sloan, Esq., of Cincinnati, delivered a course of three lectures, entitled “Merry Hours.” In advance of the course he selected the names of several persons and things which would be incidentally introduced in the lectures, and requested Dr. Smith to write for him, for his use, the prelude to each lecture. The notice was very sudden; but the impromptu responses are given below, as illustrations of the versatility of the poet, in “Mirthful Moments.”
Humorous Fragments, No. 1.
“Tom Pidger” is going to trot out “his bride;”
On my word, you shall learn, drawn true to the life,
'Mid the frolic and fun, what makes “a good wife;”
Or lawyer's, or “minister's,” even your own,—
(Aside) if your willing to yield her your throne.
On a trip with your wife, or your merry-tongued daughter;
Or learned “early rising” from witty “J. Saxe,”—
I'll warrant you need, after such relaxation,
Some muscular fun, before your vocation
You ply, like an engine, through snow, sleet, and rain,
And buckle to labor and business again.
So smooth out the creases that furrow your brow,
While, juicy as apples just plucked from the bough,
I strive, gentle friends, to the best of my power,
To give, as per program, a right “merry hour.”
Humorous Fragments, No. 2.
Like some rich mine of gold, condensed in one enormous nugget,—
Talk in one breath of courtship, love, and ardor patriotic,
Mixing, like old Egyptian priests, hieratic and demotic,—
Your sides would shake, your brain would ache amid the varied clatter,
And echoes ring from all the hall, “Good, sir, what is the matter?”
Just as your daily letters, friend, come one by one by mail,—
How “Mr. Winkle” sought “the springs” where wit and beauty fed;
And “Pickwick at the Ipswich Inn” once missed his way to bed;
Resolved, “I never more shall dare be witty as I can.”
Perhaps, to try another strain, and prove its potent magic,
My rendering of “Clarence' Dream,” will give you a touch of tragic.
So here you have a program true,—not baseless as false rumor,—
Apply your ears and you shall hear “fragments of wit and humor.”
Humorous Fragments, No. 3.
Pathetic scenes and mirthful hours,—now rest, now battle's strife.
Chiefly in merry mood my steps from scene to scene shall roam;
A tear may dampen on your lids for the “dear folks at home;”
You needs must hear how “Harry Fifth” manœuvred for “his wife;”
And roguish Kate, with cunning grace, worried the Prince's life.
There 's something sweet in early “love;” I think you've found it so;
Some, in its budding promise yet,—some knew it long ago.
Sometimes the sly, winged Cupid puts a sting within your marrow;
But oftener smitten hearts declare, there's honey on his arrow.
I quite agree with you, my friend, I mean to praise it duly.
Amid the wealth of sea and soil, republic, kingdom, throne,
This gem of all the nations gleams, a diamond set alone.
You thought of courtship when I spoke just now of Henry V.;
Now leave the ship and keep the court, take land instead of sea.
“Bardell and Pickwick's” case is reached,—so read the clerk's report.
This fills the docket, gentle friends: these petals make the flower;
Unfolding, one by one, their scent will fill the “merry hour.”
Unconsciously the sunlit sands will trickle through the glass,
While wit high carnival maintains, and “Mirthful Moments” pass.
ELOQUENCE.
Extracts from poem read before the Philhermenian Society, of Brown University, R. I., September, 1838; and before the Erosophian Adelphi, of Waterville College, Maine, August, 1840.
Of gorgeous words, in gorgeous forms arrayed;
No pomp of style, no art by masters taught;
Not graceful gesture, not profoundest thought,
Nor reason's power, nor feeling most intense,—
Expound the matchless power of eloquence!
What more are these than rudimental parts,—
Disjecta membra of the art of arts?
Show me the man whose words in torrents rush,
While tides of feeling from his full soul gush;
Simple and clear in style, in action strong,
With Nature's purest utterance on his tongue;
Deep, rich in thought, majestically bright,
In illustration, like meridian light;
Persuasive, gentle, graphic, great, sublime,—
A giant midst the pygmies of his time;
In whom, unconscious, Nature's beauty gleams,
And art itself, but perfect Nature seems;
Able to wield the fiercest mob at will,
Like Him whose voice bade the rough sea be still,
And every billow settled at His word,
The ocean yielding homage to its Lord;—
That man is eloquent; a coal divine,
Brought by some seraph from the eternal shrine,
Has touched his lips, set loose his noble mind
From clogs that hold the mass of human kind,
Made him soar upward, gloriously free,
And breathe the soulful air of liberty.
Pure eloquence has many a home besides:
Not fettered down, 't is true, by stated rules,
Chastened and trained, like logic, in the schools,
Not forced, like rhetoric, to be an art,—
But breathing life and power from Nature's heart.
Wildly, but sweet, its lovely cadence floats,
Well worthy to be viewed as Heaven-taught notes.
Where can a spot in Nature's ample round,
Filled with Jehovah's workmanship, be found,—
A spot where myriad suns converge their rays,
And worlds to worlds respond their Maker's praise,
Or where in meaner ranks creation throngs,
And countless thousands chant their gladsome songs,
While the minutest worm is called to share—
Sublime compassion!—its Creator's care,
Where, where a spot, through Nature's vast extent,
But God has made superbly eloquent!
And boasts a rich creation, all its own,
Bold, mighty, clear, magnificent, complete,—
There all ideals of perfection meet!
If the real world is eloquent with truth,
In art and nature, hoary age and youth,
Which, though it grieves us, still demands an ear,—
And woe betide the man who scorns to hear;—
Imagination, in its rainbows drest,
Utters its eloquence in every breast;
Puts on all charms, assumes all gay attire;
Makes tears of blood, or breath of living fire;
Raises the beggar to a kingly throne,
Or nods, and thousands tread the monarch down;
Bids the dark ocean heave its waves on high,
Or whispers, and the stormy tempests die!
Tremble and quiver, and long vigils keep;
Again, it lulls us to an angel's rest,—
Pure, sweet, and tranquil as the evening west;
Moved by the scenes it feigns, our hearts have bled,
Grief rose in floods, tears were in torrents shed;
Bound by the magic of its mighty spell,
We wept in agony, when all was well!
Oh, say, what mistress else has strength to bind
The secret movements of the free-born mind?
What energy besides can melt and mould
The human spirit like to liquid gold?
What agent rule us by a law so stern,
Which oft disgusts us, while we o'er it yearn?
Say, what within, beyond, the realm of sense,
Boasts with more right the power of Eloquence.
SOUL-LIBERTY, THE WATCHWORD OF THE WORLD.
The following verses were originally written, as will appear during the perusal, to honor the “Early Baptists of New England.” They have a larger range of tribute than belongs to any individual branch of the Church of Christ. They reflect those elements of character which pervaded the early Christians of America, and made American Independence possible.
Of heroes honored by a spotless name;
From selfish aims and low ambition pure,
Born for a work which ever shall endure.
Brave men and true, with fearless steps they trod,
Soul-liberty their aim,—their leader, God.
Bound by no ritual, servants of no school,
Pledged to no standing order, all their plan
To trust God's truth to God, man's rights to man,—
They held no precept but the Saviour's word,
Called no one “Master” but their glorious Lord.
They claimed no right the conscience to restrain,
Deemed human rites both useless things and vain,
Taught infant baptism,—when the babes believed,
And their young hearts the Saviour's grace received;
Believed in sprinkling—of Christ's precious blood—
And urged their converts to that cleansing flood.
But, dead to sin, they chose the mystic grave,
Memorial blest of Him who came to save;
Then taught the world, by charity divine,
How Christ's sweet spirit in the life can shine;
All men embrace within its mighty span,
Grant each his right, and honor man as man.
Their earliest church on yonder sea-girt isle
In faith they planted, and bedewed with tears
The infant slip, the joy of later years.
When scourged by power, the cruel stripes they bore;
Eased by God's succor, made their converts more.
When doomed to exile, wider still they spread
The faith they loved, the truth for which they bled.
Their zeal for God, by fire and dungeons tried,
Grew when they suffered, triumphed when they died.
Free as the water, rippling on their strand,
Reaching and kissing every distant land,
So the broad truths they taught, hemmed in no more,
Seek every land, and find each distant shore.
For which they suffered, and in which they died,
Stood for Christ's truth, brought freedom to the oppressed,
Joy to the prisoner,—to the troubled, rest;
Like some fair beacon, marked the blessed way,
And shed its welcome light across the bay.
They passed from earth, the champions in the fight,
Their hearts undaunted, and their armor bright;
Servants of men not they, but fearing God;
And countless thousands in their steps have trod.
Float in the light, and bathe in heaven's bright blue,
But, noonday past, in gold and crimson, rest,
Like gorgeous mountains, in the glowing west,
While day departs in peaceful beauty die,
Leaving their tranquil glow along the sky,—
So lived Christ's witnesses, friends of Christ's truth,
As men endowed with an unfailing youth,
And dying, left, like daylight's golden train,
Blest memories in which they live again.
Whose souls craved freedom as the lungs crave air,
Blest for your work, whose fruits, like harvests, wave,
Blest for the noble heritage ye gave,
In filial love, in manly strength and cheer,
In queenly charms and beauty, gathered here,
Honors sincere around your brows we wreathe,
And blessings on your memories we breathe;
Be ours the honor and the bliss to wear
With grateful joy and pride your mantles rare,
Till o'er each bannered height shall swing, unfurled,
“Soul-liberty,”—the watchword of the world.
THE UNFETTERED CONSCIENCE.
In 1665 the authorities of the Town of Boston nailed up the doors of the First Baptist Church, and forbade its use. The order was soon after revoked.
At the 200th Anniversary of the historic event above noticed, the following lines were read, to illustrate that heroism, founded upon religious convictions, which largely distinguished the Founders of the Great American Republic.
“Shut out the faithful few”
Who nailed their banners to the mast,
To Christ and conscience true;
Their motto, “What the Scripture saith,”
With souls serene and brave,
And held unshrinkingly the faith
The Word and Spirit gave.
Roared round the little flock;
But, peaceful as the heaven's blue arch,
Their zeal defied the shock;
Not theirs, made weak by coward fear
The truth they loved, to yield;
Not theirs, compelled by scoff and jeer,
To hasten from the field.
Barred from their house of prayer,
Crushed by the ruler's scorn and frown,
The people's taunt and stare;
Met in their lowly shed,
They worshipped Him in tears, who knew
Not where to lay His head.
Their act had power to bind
The sacred rights of men redeemed,
To crush the freeborn mind;
But who shall bind the beams of light
The sun at midday flings?
Or check the eagle's heavenward flight
By cobwebs on his wings?
In vain assert control
O'er that free thing, the Almighty breath,
God's image in the soul;
Tyrants of earth, with mace and crown,
May make an empire cower;
The soul—an empire of its own—
Defies their utmost power.
A pall of blackest night?
Or grains of dust upon his wing
Impede the seraph's flight?
God's thought, unchecked by human rule,
Shall hold its mighty sway;
God's law shall found its lofty school,
And love make all obey.
The erring hammer wrought,—
A seed, that day,—harvests, ere long,—
With wondrous fruits was fraught;
Yet, when they homeward sail,
Bring wealth uncounted to the mart,
Nor heed the stormy gale.
From God's blest Word will shine;
Conscience and truth will have their right,—
“'T is human,” 't is divine;
Hold in your leash the billowy sea,
Fetter the waves of sound,
Man's soul,—God's truth,—divinely free,
By man cannot be bound.
BE JOYFUL.
In fields which God, the Lord, hath blessed;
Joy!—for the sower, where he sings
On the bright hills of heavenly rest!
In faith and love, salvation's leaves!
Joy!—for the reaper, safe with God,
And honored with his ripened sheaves!
'Mid scenes of sorrow, blood, and strife;
Gladly we choose the paths they sought,
And track their steps, to endless life.
No more the dust of earth they tread;
The work proceeds,—and God's dear Son
Shall triumph, where their feet have bled.
At last, no more fierce fight shall wage.
Joy for Immanuel! wear the crown,
Immortal Prince,—from age to age!
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
Of sunshine, dew, and flowers,
Has sprung to life no Christmas tree
More fair than this of ours.
Flows out from stem to stem,
But beauty crowns each bending branch,
A Christmas diadem.
No withered twig is seen;
Love set, and love adorned, the tree,—
And love is ever green.
Closely to every other,
Like nestling bird to nestling bird,
Like child to loving mother.
Alive, without a root;
'T is not a fruit tree, but it yields
The most amazing fruit.
Cake, candy, book, or pistol?
Perhaps not all, but love, as dear
As any love in Bristol.
Come to our Christmas tree;
Come where the branches drop their gifts,
Like the blest gospel, free.
Of sunshine, dew, and flowers,
Has sprung to life no Christmas tree,
More fair than this of ours.
SIBYLLINE LEAVES.
They teem with wondrous lore
Of things ordained to happen,
Casting their shades before;
The precious truths are written
In volumes three times three;
Come, monarch, pay the sesterces
And take the books from me.”
The haughty Tarquin cried,
“Thou hast no power to open
What God hath sworn to hide;”
The Sibyl took her volumes
And proudly stalked away;
“Three shall be burned,” she muttered,
“Six shall bring equal pay.”
Three volumes ceased to be;
“Now, six, O haughty Tarquin,
Await thy high decree:
Three precious tomes have perished,
That told Rome's coming fate;
Say, wilt thou take the six I hold,
And save the glorious state?”
Three volumes burned again,
Like dry leaves in the forest,
Where comes no dew nor rain.
And stood again the Sibyl
Before proud Tarquin's door;
“Three volumes now I offer thee,
Their worth,—nor less, nor more.”
“'T is much, O hag, to pay,
But sesterces, whate'er you wish,
Sibyl, are yours to-day;
These honored leaves shall rule the state
Saved by your words prophetic,
From Thule ultima remote,
To empires trans-Gangetic.”
On the world's stormy sea,
Sailed with no Sibyl leaves to tell
How strange its fates should be.
But deeds are better far than words,—
Acts, than prophetic pen;
Prouder than hopes of things to be,
Are high deeds that have been.
Things secret e'er reveals,
And only life, with solemn pomp,
The book of Fate unseals;
Thou saidst, O Sibyl, volumes three
Filled with thy lore divine,
Were worth as many sesterces
As were the volumes nine.
File by, as men in battle,—
Borne strongly to its glorious end,
Amid the world's vain rattle,—
Is worth a thousand promises
Dreamed by a brain ascetic;
Our glory is in acts, not words,—
Deeds done, not deeds prophetic.
DORCAS.
“This woman was full of good works and almsdeeds which she did.”
Acts ix. 36.By Dorcas for the poor,
Excel in beauty all the robes
That monarchs ever wore.
These, from the sphere of mortal things,
Like breaths of wind have passed;
The record of her humble work,
Forevermore will last.
Glittered their fleeting day;
The shining jewels men admire,
Were fair,—but where are they?
The coats and garments Dorcas made
To bless the humble poor,
Are treasured with the holy things
Which ever shall endure.
Takes His immortal throne,
And such as did His will on earth,
His loving voice shall own,
They, in the sufferers whom they helped,
Their Lord Himself shall see,—
“In that ye did it unto these,
Ye did it unto me.”
My sister's eighty-ninth birthday, March 17, 1895.
It is not out of place to add, for example's sake, that during a few months previous to the date of this brotherly tribute, the subject of the verses sent to the needy poor children of the South, more than two hundred useful articles, all of which were her own handiwork.—
Ed.OUR YEARS ROLL ON.
A “Carrier's Address” written January 1, 1832, while a student at Andover, Mass., and recalled to mind by the poet, with a loving confidence that when years on earth shall end, a blessed immortality lies beyond.
The choice of this poem, written shortly before the hymn, “My Country, 't is of thee,” has been adopted, with the poet's approval, as the closing selection of this volume. The experience of a long life has confirmed his early estimate of duty, as “Our years roll on.”
Brief as the rainbow on the dropping spray
Of some wild waterfall, that foams afar,
Where Nature's rudest rocks and forests are.
With heaven's bright hues the falling raindrops burn;
They hurry onward; others, in their turn,
Shine just as bright, and glow as soft and clear;
But while we look, their beauties disappear.
Here smile the buds of hope; there dwells decay.
Now friends are here; but quickly they depart,
And death unwinds the strings that bind the heart.
Pleasure and pain their changing courses keep,
Sure as our waking hours succeed to sleep;
From wave to wave we mount, till changing tires,
And life—the close of changing scenes—expires.
Cheered with the righteous Sun's reviving ray.
The streams of rich salvation round us flow,
And thousand hearts their precious virtue know.
Come floating by, on every wind of heaven;
The sway of sin begins at length to wane;
And o'er the world the Saviour comes to reign.
O'er flowery banks we may not take our way;
We may not linger where soft numbers swell,
Nor over-love the things we love so well.
'T is ours to work for God; 't is ours to go
Through earth's wide field, the precious seed to sow.
We may not rest till life's bright years decline;
Then, like the sun in heaven, our names shall shine.
Our youth's companions, tell us, where are they?
And where are thousands whom we knew before,—
Thousands, whose faces we shall see no more?
Among the dead their dwelling is to-day.
Hear we their voice, “Ye living, watch and pray!”
Hear and obey; then we no scene may fear;
But each revolving sun shall bring a happy year.
Poems of home and country | ||