 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
153
IV.
HYMNS AND ODES FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS.
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[I. I praise the God, who, while I kept]
[_]
Written for the Twenty-second Anniversary of the Boston Female Orphan Asylum, September 20th, 1822.
I praise the God, who, while I kept
My watch beside the grave,
Where, cold and dead, my father slept,
Where, drowned in grief, my mother wept,
An orphan stooped to save.
My watch beside the grave,
Where, cold and dead, my father slept,
Where, drowned in grief, my mother wept,
An orphan stooped to save.
He stooped to save when hope had fled;
For soon my mother's moan
Was heard no more;—when she had shed
Her last tear o'er my father's bed,
She rested in her own.
For soon my mother's moan
Was heard no more;—when she had shed
Her last tear o'er my father's bed,
She rested in her own.
When round my couch the visions pressed,
Of want, and guilt, and shame,
Then, like the spirits of the blest,
Sent forth to guide me to my rest,
The orphan's guardians came.
Of want, and guilt, and shame,
Then, like the spirits of the blest,
Sent forth to guide me to my rest,
The orphan's guardians came.
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I thank thee, Lord, for hope's sweet ray,
To life's dark morning given;
Let it shine on through all my day;
Let virtues bloom along my way,
And let their fruits be heaven.
To life's dark morning given;
Let it shine on through all my day;
Let virtues bloom along my way,
And let their fruits be heaven.
[II. Mighty One, whose name is holy]
Mighty One, whose name is holy,
Thou wilt save thy work alive;
And the spirit of the lowly
Thou wilt visit and revive.
What thy prophets thus have spoken,
Ages witness as they roll;
Bleeding hearts and spirits broken,
Touched by thee, O God, are whole.
Thou wilt save thy work alive;
And the spirit of the lowly
Thou wilt visit and revive.
What thy prophets thus have spoken,
Ages witness as they roll;
Bleeding hearts and spirits broken,
Touched by thee, O God, are whole.
By thy pitying spirit guided,
Jesus sought the sufferer's door,
Comforts for the poor provided,
And the mourner's sorrows bore.
So, it was thy spirit, beaming
In his face whose name we bear,
That sustained him while redeeming
Power's pale victims from despair.
Jesus sought the sufferer's door,
Comforts for the poor provided,
And the mourner's sorrows bore.
So, it was thy spirit, beaming
In his face whose name we bear,
That sustained him while redeeming
Power's pale victims from despair.
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To the prisoner, wan and wasting
In the voiceless dungeon's night,
He, thine own apostle, hasting,
Led him forth, unbound, to light.
So thy mercy's angel, bending,
Heard a friendless prisoner call,
And, through night's cold vault descending,
Loosed from chains thy servant Paul.
In the voiceless dungeon's night,
He, thine own apostle, hasting,
Led him forth, unbound, to light.
So thy mercy's angel, bending,
Heard a friendless prisoner call,
And, through night's cold vault descending,
Loosed from chains thy servant Paul.
Father, as thy love is endless,
Working by thy servants thus,
The forsaken and the friendless
Deign to visit, even by us.
So shall each, with spirit fervent,
Laboring with thee here below,
Be declared thy faithful servant,
Where there 's neither want nor woe.
Working by thy servants thus,
The forsaken and the friendless
Deign to visit, even by us.
So shall each, with spirit fervent,
Laboring with thee here below,
Be declared thy faithful servant,
Where there 's neither want nor woe.
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[III. To the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling]
[_]
Written for the Centennial Anniversary of the Charitable Irish Society in Boston, March 17th, 1837.
To the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling,
And where the remains of our forefathers sleep,
Our eyes turn to-day, with the tears in them swelling;—
But why are we sad, who this festival keep?
We weep not for ourselves;—for our fathers, our mothers,
Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our brothers,
Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others
We may not name aloud,—'t is for these that we weep.
And where the remains of our forefathers sleep,
Our eyes turn to-day, with the tears in them swelling;—
But why are we sad, who this festival keep?
We weep not for ourselves;—for our fathers, our mothers,
Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our brothers,
Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others
We may not name aloud,—'t is for these that we weep.
Poor Ireland! how long shall thy hardly earned treasures
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge,
Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures,
Or swelling the train of a William or George!
'T is not so with thy sons on this side of the ocean;
Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion
We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion,
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge.
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge,
Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures,
Or swelling the train of a William or George!
'T is not so with thy sons on this side of the ocean;
Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion
We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion,
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge.
At evening, the blue eyes of many a maiden
In Erin are lifted to look at the star,
That is hung in the west; and the night wind is laden
With sighs for the loved ones beneath it afar.
Girls of the green isle, O do not deplore us!
In our visions ye 're swimming, like angels, before us,
And the Being, whose shield of protection is o'er us,
Hath not made the deep an impassable bar.
In Erin are lifted to look at the star,
That is hung in the west; and the night wind is laden
With sighs for the loved ones beneath it afar.
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In our visions ye 're swimming, like angels, before us,
And the Being, whose shield of protection is o'er us,
Hath not made the deep an impassable bar.
Though absent, the fount of our faith is not frozen;
While we live, of its up-welling waters we'll draw,
For the maids that we love, for the land that we 've chosen,
Where Freedom is nursed at the bosom of Law.
“Land of the free! for the shelter thou 'st given
To those whom the storm of oppression has driven
From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from heaven!”
Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh.
While we live, of its up-welling waters we'll draw,
For the maids that we love, for the land that we 've chosen,
Where Freedom is nursed at the bosom of Law.
“Land of the free! for the shelter thou 'st given
To those whom the storm of oppression has driven
From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from heaven!”
Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh.
[IV. The fatherless and widow, Lord]
The fatherless and widow, Lord,
Find hope and comfort in this word,
Which in thy Holy Book they see,—
“Leave all thy fatherless to me.”
Find hope and comfort in this word,
Which in thy Holy Book they see,—
“Leave all thy fatherless to me.”
This checks the dying husband's sigh,
As on his wife he turns his eye,
Who, at his bed-side bends her knee,—
“And let thy widows trust in me.”
As on his wife he turns his eye,
Who, at his bed-side bends her knee,—
“And let thy widows trust in me.”
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“Thy Maker is thy husband;”—this
Soothes the keen anguish of the kiss,
Pressed by the wife upon his brow,
Who answers not to “Husband!” now.
Soothes the keen anguish of the kiss,
Pressed by the wife upon his brow,
Who answers not to “Husband!” now.
“Orphans and fatherless are we,
Our mothers widows!”—Thus, of old,
Did Zion's children plead with Thee;
And still that mournful tale is told.
Our mothers widows!”—Thus, of old,
Did Zion's children plead with Thee;
And still that mournful tale is told.
But He hath come, who to his breast
Clasped such forsaken ones and blessed.
Here, Lord, are children left alone;—
Help us to clasp them to our own.
Clasped such forsaken ones and blessed.
Here, Lord, are children left alone;—
Help us to clasp them to our own.
And bless thy servant,
Lord, whose ear
These orphans' thanks can never hear,—
Thanks, that, although his eyes are dim,
They have a father found in him.
These orphans' thanks can never hear,—
Thanks, that, although his eyes are dim,
They have a father found in him.
Time, with his softly falling sand,
Hath closed his ear, but not his hand.
Lord, when that sand shall all have run,
Shall he not hear “Well done! Well done!”
Hath closed his ear, but not his hand.
Lord, when that sand shall all have run,
Shall he not hear “Well done! Well done!”
Father of all, our hope, our trust!
When we are sleeping in the dust,
Let others rise, to soothe and bless
The widow and the fatherless.
When we are sleeping in the dust,
Let others rise, to soothe and bless
The widow and the fatherless.
Referring to Mr. Theodore Lyman; who had made the Society a donation of $2,400, besides sundry valuable articles of food and clothing. He was aged and almost totally deaf.
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[V. Faint, bleeding, of his robes bereft]
[_]
Written for the Twentieth Anniversary of the Female Samaritan Society, Boston, October 22d, 1837.
Faint, bleeding, of his robes bereft,
“Ready to perish” by the way,
'Mid craggy wilds by robbers left,
A lonely Jewish traveller lay.
“Ready to perish” by the way,
'Mid craggy wilds by robbers left,
A lonely Jewish traveller lay.
A priest of Judah, passing by,
The sufferer saw, and help denied.
A Levite toward him turned his eye,
And “passed by on the other side.”
The sufferer saw, and help denied.
A Levite toward him turned his eye,
And “passed by on the other side.”
A traveller from Samaria came,—
Whose nation's bosom long had burned
With hatred of the Jewish name,—
And toward the wounded stranger turned.
Whose nation's bosom long had burned
With hatred of the Jewish name,—
And toward the wounded stranger turned.
As nearer, on his beast, he drew,
A thrill of pity through him ran;—
He saw not there a hated Jew;
He only saw a suffering man.
A thrill of pity through him ran;—
He saw not there a hated Jew;
He only saw a suffering man.
He saw him;—from his own scant store
Of oil and wine he filled his cup,
From his own robe a bandage tore,
And bathed his wounds and bound them up;
Of oil and wine he filled his cup,
From his own robe a bandage tore,
And bathed his wounds and bound them up;
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On his own beast the sufferer laid,
And to an hospitable shed
Bore him,—for all his nursing paid,
And left him on a grateful bed.
And to an hospitable shed
Bore him,—for all his nursing paid,
And left him on a grateful bed.
“Go, do thou likewise!” Thus said He,
Who gave the world this touching tale;—
We would do likewise, Lord, till we
Tread, each alone, Death's shadowy vale.
Who gave the world this touching tale;—
We would do likewise, Lord, till we
Tread, each alone, Death's shadowy vale.
[VI. Weary travellers are we]
[_]
Written for the Fair of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief of Widows and Orphans, Boston, July 4th, 1839.
Weary travellers are we,
And our word is briefly spoken;
We must lean on charity,
For our “stay and staff” is broken.
And our word is briefly spoken;
We must lean on charity,
For our “stay and staff” is broken.
We are widows;—o'er the dead
Oft we bend, to feed our sorrow;
But the grave can give no bread,
And we have none for to-morrow.
Oft we bend, to feed our sorrow;
But the grave can give no bread,
And we have none for to-morrow.
We are fatherless;—the crowd
Passes by and does not heed us.
We are hungry;—but the proud
Shelter not, nor clothe, nor feed us.
Passes by and does not heed us.
We are hungry;—but the proud
Shelter not, nor clothe, nor feed us.
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From our loved and lost ones parted,
We are journeying on alone.
We are sick and broken-hearted,—
For our hearts were not of stone.
We are journeying on alone.
We are sick and broken-hearted,—
For our hearts were not of stone.
We would gladly serve you, neighbour,
Could we earn the coarsest meal;
But, we 're yet too young to labor;—
Must we starve,—or, must we steal?
Could we earn the coarsest meal;
But, we 're yet too young to labor;—
Must we starve,—or, must we steal?
We'll do neither!—there are, round us,
Pitying hearts and willing hands;
Woman's melting eye has found us;
She beside us pleading stands.
Pitying hearts and willing hands;
Woman's melting eye has found us;
She beside us pleading stands.
Our fair friends, here, have been vying
With each other in our aid,
Night and day their needles plying,—
See, what charming things they've made!
With each other in our aid,
Night and day their needles plying,—
See, what charming things they've made!
Let us lead you to this table,
By their fairy fingers dressed;—
As you stand here, you'll be able
To look round on all the rest.
By their fairy fingers dressed;—
As you stand here, you'll be able
To look round on all the rest.
This young lady is our sister;—
Is n't this a rare display?
There! we knew you'd not resist her;—
Pray you, Madam, step this way.
Is n't this a rare display?
There! we knew you'd not resist her;—
Pray you, Madam, step this way.
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This good woman is our mother,
For a mother's heart is hers.
All good people help each other,
All are thus God's ministers.
For a mother's heart is hers.
All good people help each other,
All are thus God's ministers.
Friends, we have been faint and weary
Travellers on life's thorny way;
But our path looks now less dreary;
Sunshine falls upon 't to-day.
Travellers on life's thorny way;
But our path looks now less dreary;
Sunshine falls upon 't to-day.
Love's warm sunshine! How resplendent
Art thou to the Orphan boy,
Whom thou makest Independent,
On this day of general joy!
Art thou to the Orphan boy,
Whom thou makest Independent,
On this day of general joy!
[VII. Father of lights! we bless each ray]
[_]
Written for the Jubilee of Sunday Schools, celebrated by the Boston Sunday School Society, September 14th, 1831.
Father of lights! we bless each ray
Shot from thy throne to lead the blind;
With song we hail the holy day
That's dawning on the youthful mind.
Shot from thy throne to lead the blind;
With song we hail the holy day
That's dawning on the youthful mind.
Gone is the gloom! the cold eclipse,
In which the ignorant at thee gaze,
Has passed; and now from infant lips
Art thou, O God, “perfecting praise.”
In which the ignorant at thee gaze,
Has passed; and now from infant lips
Art thou, O God, “perfecting praise.”
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Bishop of souls, whose arms were spread,
To clasp and bless such little ones,
On these be thine own spirit shed,
That they may be thy Father's sons!
To clasp and bless such little ones,
On these be thine own spirit shed,
That they may be thy Father's sons!
Friends of the young, whose toils are o'er,
Taste ye in heaven a purer bliss,
Or one that now ye cherish more,
Than that which comes from days like this?
Taste ye in heaven a purer bliss,
Or one that now ye cherish more,
Than that which comes from days like this?
Author of life! when death's cold hand
Is gently on our eyelids pressed,
May sorrowing children round us stand,—
The children whom our cares have blessed.
Is gently on our eyelids pressed,
May sorrowing children round us stand,—
The children whom our cares have blessed.
[VIII. Shall that old chamber be forgot]
[_]
Written for the Thirteenth Anniversary of the Howard Sunday School, Boston, December 10th, 1839.
Shall that old chamber
be forgot,
Where first the light divine
Shone on our infant Sunday School,
So pleasant, but lang syne?
'T was pleasant, but lang syne, my friends,
'T was pleasant, but lang syne,
We'll not forget that chamber where
We prayed and sung lang syne.
Where first the light divine
Shone on our infant Sunday School,
So pleasant, but lang syne?
'T was pleasant, but lang syne, my friends,
'T was pleasant, but lang syne,
We'll not forget that chamber where
We prayed and sung lang syne.
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Shall Friend-Street Chapel be forgot,
To which, in lengthening line,
When that old room was full, we marched,
In twenty eight or nine?
O, that appears lang syne, my friends,
But, though it was lang syne,
We'll not forget the Chapel where
We used to meet lang syne.
To which, in lengthening line,
When that old room was full, we marched,
In twenty eight or nine?
O, that appears lang syne, my friends,
But, though it was lang syne,
We'll not forget the Chapel where
We used to meet lang syne.
Shall our old teachers be forgot,
Whose voice and look benign
First drew us to the Sabbath School,
And taught us there lang syne?
O, was not that lang syne, my friends,
O, was it not lang syne?
But still we thank and bless them all,
For teaching us lang syne.
Whose voice and look benign
First drew us to the Sabbath School,
And taught us there lang syne?
O, was not that lang syne, my friends,
O, was it not lang syne?
But still we thank and bless them all,
For teaching us lang syne.
Some of those voices death hath hushed,
And closed those kindly eyen,
That were so cheering to our hearts,
When we were sad lang syne.
O, was not that lang syne, my friends?
It was, indeed, lang syne;
And heavenly hymns those voices sing,
That sung with us lang syne.
And closed those kindly eyen,
That were so cheering to our hearts,
When we were sad lang syne.
O, was not that lang syne, my friends?
It was, indeed, lang syne;
And heavenly hymns those voices sing,
That sung with us lang syne.
Our white-haired Pastor,
should he soon
Earth's toils and joys resign,
Shall be remembered by us all,
For what he did lang syne.
O, how he loved us all, my friends,
He loved us all lang syne,
And great be his reward in heaven,
For loving us lang syne!
Earth's toils and joys resign,
Shall be remembered by us all,
For what he did lang syne.
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He loved us all lang syne,
And great be his reward in heaven,
For loving us lang syne!
Nor be our present friends forgot,
Who work the Gospel mine,
Where Christ and his apostles dropped
The gems of truth lang syne.
O, that was lang, lang syne, my friends,
Yes, that was lang, lang syne,
But still those gems are just as bright,
As were they lang, lang syne.
Who work the Gospel mine,
Where Christ and his apostles dropped
The gems of truth lang syne.
O, that was lang, lang syne, my friends,
Yes, that was lang, lang syne,
But still those gems are just as bright,
As were they lang, lang syne.
O Father! with those gems, more rich
Than gold or silver fine,
Be all our spirits crowned, as were
Thy Son's and saints' lang syne.
They've worn their crowns lang syne, O God,
They've worn their crowns lang syne;
O, help us tread the paths they trod,
While serving thee lang syne!
Than gold or silver fine,
Be all our spirits crowned, as were
Thy Son's and saints' lang syne.
They've worn their crowns lang syne, O God,
They've worn their crowns lang syne;
O, help us tread the paths they trod,
While serving thee lang syne!
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[IX. Spirit of Wisdom and of Power]
[_]
Written for the Fifth Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, October 4th, 1821.
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power!
The works of Egypt's mightiest hour,—
The pyramid and vaulted tomb,—
The peerless fane of David's son,
The giant towers of Babylon,—
Old works of grandeur and of gloom,—
The works of Egypt's mightiest hour,—
The pyramid and vaulted tomb,—
The peerless fane of David's son,
The giant towers of Babylon,—
Old works of grandeur and of gloom,—
The curtained ark, the jewelled vest
That gleamed of old on Aaron's breast,
Works for their glorious beauty famed;
All these, by thine informing mind,
In strength were reared, with skill designed,
And lead our thoughts to thee when named.
That gleamed of old on Aaron's breast,
Works for their glorious beauty famed;
All these, by thine informing mind,
In strength were reared, with skill designed,
And lead our thoughts to thee when named.
Lone columns on the Ionian shore,
And sculptured ruins scattered o'er
Athenian and Corinthian plains,
Of thy departed spirit speak,
That shed a glory round the Greek,
And threw its last light on his chains.
And sculptured ruins scattered o'er
Athenian and Corinthian plains,
Of thy departed spirit speak,
That shed a glory round the Greek,
And threw its last light on his chains.
The conqueror's arch, the temple's dome,
Of pagan and of Christian Rome,
Thy kindling spirit taught to swell;
And many a tall monastic pile,
Still frowning o'er our fathers' Isle,
Of thy past inspirations tell.
Of pagan and of Christian Rome,
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And many a tall monastic pile,
Still frowning o'er our fathers' Isle,
Of thy past inspirations tell.
The arts that bid our navies ride
And thunder o'er the trackless tide,
The arts of dove-winged Peace, are thine.
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power!
Be thou our undecaying tower,
And our adoring hearts thy shrine.
And thunder o'er the trackless tide,
The arts of dove-winged Peace, are thine.
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power!
Be thou our undecaying tower,
And our adoring hearts thy shrine.
[X. Now to the God to whom all might]
Now to the God to whom all might
And glory in all worlds belong,
Who fills unseen his throne of light,
Come, let us sing a general song.
And glory in all worlds belong,
Who fills unseen his throne of light,
Come, let us sing a general song.
His spirit wrapped the mantling air,
Of old, around our infant Earth,
And, on her bosom warm and fair,
Gave her young lord his joyous birth.
Of old, around our infant Earth,
And, on her bosom warm and fair,
Gave her young lord his joyous birth.
He smiles on morning's rosy way;
He paints the gorgeous clouds of even;
To noon he gives its ripening ray;
To night, the view of glorious heaven.
He paints the gorgeous clouds of even;
To noon he gives its ripening ray;
To night, the view of glorious heaven.
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He drives along those sparkling globes
In circles of unerring truth;
He decks them all in radiant robes,
And crowns them with eternal youth.
In circles of unerring truth;
He decks them all in radiant robes,
And crowns them with eternal youth.
So will he crown the upright mind,
When life and all its toils are o'er;—
Then let his praise, on every wind,
Rise, till the winds shall wake no more.
When life and all its toils are o'er;—
Then let his praise, on every wind,
Rise, till the winds shall wake no more.
[XI. Loud o'er thy savage child]
[_]
Written for the Seventh Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, October 4th, 1827.
Loud o'er thy savage child,
O God, the night-wind roared,
As, houseless, in the wild
He bowed him and adored.
Thou saw'st him there,
As to the sky
He raised his eye
In fear and prayer.
O God, the night-wind roared,
As, houseless, in the wild
He bowed him and adored.
Thou saw'st him there,
As to the sky
He raised his eye
In fear and prayer.
Thine inspiration came!
And, grateful for thine aid,
An altar to thy name
He built beneath the shade.
The limbs of larch,
That darkened round,
He bent and bound
In many an arch;
And, grateful for thine aid,
An altar to thy name
He built beneath the shade.
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That darkened round,
He bent and bound
In many an arch;
Till, in a sylvan fane,
Went up the voice of prayer,
And music's simple strain
Arose in worship there.
The arching boughs,
The roof of leaves
That summer weaves,
O'erheard his vows.
Went up the voice of prayer,
And music's simple strain
Arose in worship there.
The arching boughs,
The roof of leaves
That summer weaves,
O'erheard his vows.
Then beamed a brighter day;
And Salem's holy height
And Greece in glory lay
Beneath the kindling light.
Thy temple rose
On Salem's hill,
While Grecian skill
Adorned thy foes.
And Salem's holy height
And Greece in glory lay
Beneath the kindling light.
Thy temple rose
On Salem's hill,
While Grecian skill
Adorned thy foes.
Along those rocky shores,
Along those olive plains,
Where pilgrim Genius pores
O'er art's sublime remains,
Long colonnades
Of snowy white
Looked forth in light
Through classic shades.
Along those olive plains,
Where pilgrim Genius pores
O'er art's sublime remains,
Long colonnades
Of snowy white
Looked forth in light
Through classic shades.
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Forth from the quarry stone
The marble goddess sprung;
And, loosely round her thrown,
Her marble vesture hung;
And forth from cold
And sunless mines
Came silver shrines
And gods of gold.
The marble goddess sprung;
And, loosely round her thrown,
Her marble vesture hung;
And forth from cold
And sunless mines
Came silver shrines
And gods of gold.
The Star of Bethlehem burned!
And, where he Stoic trod,
The altar was o'erturned,
Raised “to an unknown God.”
And now there are
No idol fanes
On all the plains
Beneath that star.
And, where he Stoic trod,
The altar was o'erturned,
Raised “to an unknown God.”
And now there are
No idol fanes
On all the plains
Beneath that star.
To honor thee, dread Power!
Our strength and skill combine;
And temple, tomb, and tower
Attest these gifts divine.
A swelling dome
For pride they gild,
For peace they build
An humbler home.
Our strength and skill combine;
And temple, tomb, and tower
Attest these gifts divine.
A swelling dome
For pride they gild,
For peace they build
An humbler home.
By these our fathers' host
Was led to victory first,
When, on our guardless coast,
The cloud of battle burst,
Through storm and spray,
By these controlled,
Our navies hold
Their thundering way.
Was led to victory first,
When, on our guardless coast,
The cloud of battle burst,
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By these controlled,
Our navies hold
Their thundering way.
Great Source of every art!
Our homes, our pictured halls,
Our thronged and busy mart,
That lifts its granite walls,
And shoots to heaven
Its glittering spires,
To catch the fires
Of morn and even,—
Our homes, our pictured halls,
Our thronged and busy mart,
That lifts its granite walls,
And shoots to heaven
Its glittering spires,
To catch the fires
Of morn and even,—
These, and the breathing forms
The brush or chisel gives,
With this when marble warms,
With that when canvass lives,—
These all combine
In countless ways
To swell thy praise,
For all are thine.
The brush or chisel gives,
With this when marble warms,
With that when canvass lives,—
These all combine
In countless ways
To swell thy praise,
For all are thine.
174
[XII. Not with a conqueror's song]
[_]
Written for the First Fair and Exhibition of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, September 20th, 1837.
Not with a conqueror's song
Thy courts, O God, we throng,
For battles gained;
No cannon's sulphurous throat,
No trumpet, gives its note,
No banners o'er us float,
With fresh blood stained.
Thy courts, O God, we throng,
For battles gained;
No cannon's sulphurous throat,
No trumpet, gives its note,
No banners o'er us float,
With fresh blood stained.
Over no captive kings,
Our eagle spreads her wings,
Or whets her beak;
Nor, o'er the battle-plain,
Where death-shot fell, like rain,
Where lie in gore the slain,
Comes her shrill shriek.
Our eagle spreads her wings,
Or whets her beak;
Nor, o'er the battle-plain,
Where death-shot fell, like rain,
Where lie in gore the slain,
Comes her shrill shriek.
For Art, which thou hast given,
The tribute due to Heaven
We come to pay;
Art, that, to deck her halls,
On air and vapor calls,
On winds and water-falls,
And all obey.
The tribute due to Heaven
We come to pay;
Art, that, to deck her halls,
On air and vapor calls,
On winds and water-falls,
And all obey.
175
Art, that, from shore to shore,
Moves, without sail or oar,
'Gainst winds and tides;
Or, high o'er earth and seas,
Sits in her car at ease,
And heavenward, on the breeze,
Triumphant rides.
Moves, without sail or oar,
'Gainst winds and tides;
Or, high o'er earth and seas,
Sits in her car at ease,
And heavenward, on the breeze,
Triumphant rides.
Art, that, through mountain bars,
Breaks, that her horseless cars
Self-moved may go;
And, without looking back,
Rolls, on her iron track,
Where the white cataract
Thunders below.
Breaks, that her horseless cars
Self-moved may go;
And, without looking back,
Rolls, on her iron track,
Where the white cataract
Thunders below.
Art, that on spool or reel,
Winds the smooth silk or steel
Spun by her hand,
Then, with her touch of fire,
Draws, from the chord or wire,
Tones that an angel quire
Well might demand.
Winds the smooth silk or steel
Spun by her hand,
Then, with her touch of fire,
Draws, from the chord or wire,
Tones that an angel quire
Well might demand.
Art, that to thee, Most High!
Gladly doth sanctify
Her works and powers;
Lord, ere our tongues are still,
Our hands forget their skill,
To thy most holy will
Devote we ours.
Gladly doth sanctify
Her works and powers;
Lord, ere our tongues are still,
Our hands forget their skill,
To thy most holy will
Devote we ours.
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