Aquidneck a poem, pronounced on the hundredth anniversary Of the Incorporation of the Redwood Library Company, Newport, R. I. August XXIV. MDCCCXLVII. with other commemorative pieces |
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 | MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. |
 | Aquidneck |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
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A RECOLLECTION OF THE ILLINOIS PRAIRIES.
Ye boundless Prairies of the West!
When late my wandering footsteps pressed,
For the first time, your fresh, green sod,
How rose my swelling heart to God;
Whose blue, illimitable sky,—
Great Nature's mild, maternal eye,—
So pure, benignant, and serene,
Looked down upon the silent scene,
And seemed with tranquil joy to brood
O'er all the lovely solitude!
When late my wandering footsteps pressed,
For the first time, your fresh, green sod,
How rose my swelling heart to God;
Whose blue, illimitable sky,—
Great Nature's mild, maternal eye,—
So pure, benignant, and serene,
Looked down upon the silent scene,
And seemed with tranquil joy to brood
O'er all the lovely solitude!
Ye boundless Prairies of the West!
Where earth upheaves her teeming breast!
Where few, as yet, and far between,
Her children in repose are seen,
But where prophetic Fancy's glance
Sees myriads crowd the fair expanse;
When first my eye, enraptured, fell
On each far upland slope and swell,
When, spread on every side, I saw,
With mingled thrill of love and awe,
The green earth rolling like a sea,
Words cannot speak the extasy
With which my spirit rose to Thee,
My Father! whose Almighty hand
In billows rolled the unbroken land.
Thy step below—thy smile above—
Did I not feel, thy name is Love?
My Father? Mine? And may I be
Permitted thus to think of Thee?
O yes; the same impartial Love,
That bends, in boundless blue, above
Yon vast expanse of hill and plain,
Where solitude and silence reign,
And which with food and gladness fills
“The cattle on a thousand hills,”—
The God whose power and goodness feed
The lark and lambkin on the mead,—
He, in his goodness and his power,
Hath brought me to this scene and hour;
And while with holy awe I fear,
I feel a Father's love is near.
Where earth upheaves her teeming breast!
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Her children in repose are seen,
But where prophetic Fancy's glance
Sees myriads crowd the fair expanse;
When first my eye, enraptured, fell
On each far upland slope and swell,
When, spread on every side, I saw,
With mingled thrill of love and awe,
The green earth rolling like a sea,
Words cannot speak the extasy
With which my spirit rose to Thee,
My Father! whose Almighty hand
In billows rolled the unbroken land.
Thy step below—thy smile above—
Did I not feel, thy name is Love?
My Father? Mine? And may I be
Permitted thus to think of Thee?
O yes; the same impartial Love,
That bends, in boundless blue, above
Yon vast expanse of hill and plain,
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And which with food and gladness fills
“The cattle on a thousand hills,”—
The God whose power and goodness feed
The lark and lambkin on the mead,—
He, in his goodness and his power,
Hath brought me to this scene and hour;
And while with holy awe I fear,
I feel a Father's love is near.
Ye far-off friends of mine, who roam,
This hour, perchance, by ocean's foam,
Were ye but here to share with me
My laboring bosom's ecstasy,
Yon upland meadows to behold,
Serenely bright in evening's gold,
To see the red sun sink to rest
On yon green ocean's billowy breast,
To see the moon with silver beam
O'er earth's wide waste of waters gleam,—
To share with you a scene like this,
Methinks it were too great a bliss.
This hour, perchance, by ocean's foam,
Were ye but here to share with me
My laboring bosom's ecstasy,
Yon upland meadows to behold,
Serenely bright in evening's gold,
To see the red sun sink to rest
On yon green ocean's billowy breast,
To see the moon with silver beam
O'er earth's wide waste of waters gleam,—
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Methinks it were too great a bliss.
Ye boundless Prairies of the West!
When in this toil-worn, care-worn breast
The heart would else lie dull and cold,
And life seem drear, and hope grow old,
And faith in God's great goodness seem
A miserable, mocking dream,—
Methinks the memory of the hour,
When first and last I felt your power,
Should bid again my bosom thrill,
My eyes with tears of rapture fill,
And lift my heart in ecstasy,
O God of love! my God! to Thee.
When in this toil-worn, care-worn breast
The heart would else lie dull and cold,
And life seem drear, and hope grow old,
And faith in God's great goodness seem
A miserable, mocking dream,—
Methinks the memory of the hour,
When first and last I felt your power,
Should bid again my bosom thrill,
My eyes with tears of rapture fill,
And lift my heart in ecstasy,
O God of love! my God! to Thee.
June, 1843.
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TO THE MISSISSIPPI.
The river begins now to assert its name—“Father of waters.” By its frequent bends and sweeps, it forms a series of noble lakes and seas. The woods of the distant shores rise majestically in terraces, formed by the successive underminings and sinkings of the banks which look over each other in silent and solemn grandeur down on the expanse of waters. They appear as smooth and regular as if trimmed by the hand of art. And so they were—the art of the Great Architect—the Great Jardinier (if one may without irreverence say so) of the universe. Extract from Ms. Journal.
Majestic stream! along thy banks,The river begins now to assert its name—“Father of waters.” By its frequent bends and sweeps, it forms a series of noble lakes and seas. The woods of the distant shores rise majestically in terraces, formed by the successive underminings and sinkings of the banks which look over each other in silent and solemn grandeur down on the expanse of waters. They appear as smooth and regular as if trimmed by the hand of art. And so they were—the art of the Great Architect—the Great Jardinier (if one may without irreverence say so) of the universe. Extract from Ms. Journal.
In silent, stately, solemn ranks,
The forests stand, and seem with pride
To gaze upon thy mighty tide;
As when, in olden, classic time,
Beneath a soft, blue, Grecian clime,
Bent o'er the stage, in breathless awe,
Crowds thrilled and trembled, as they saw
Sweep by the pomp of human life,
The sounding flood of passion's strife,
And the great stream of history
Glide on before the musing eye.
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Above, look down the arching skies;
O'er all those gathered multitudes
Such deep and voiceful silence broods,
Methinks one mighty heart I hear
Beat high with hope, or quake with fear:—
E'en so yon groves and forests seem
Spectators of this rushing stream.
In sweeping, circling ranks they rise,
Beneath the blue, o'erarching skies;
They crowd around and forward lean,
As eager to behold the scene.
Aye, these, to see, 'neath heaven's blue dome,
Great Nature's spectacle, have come,—
To see, proud river! sparkling wide,
The long procession of thy tide,—
To stand and gaze, and feel with thee
All thy unuttered ecstasy.
It seems as if a heart did thrill
Within yon forests, deep and still,
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That stirs their solitudes profound.
June, 1843.
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THE LOST CLOAK.
Air—“Old Arm Chair.”
I've lost it! I've lost it! My frien's, 'tis nae joke
To lose, in mid-winter, a cosy auld cloak.
Like a frien' it had served me by night and by day,
And I fondly had thocht it wad last me for aye;
But I've lost it! I've lost it! oh terrible stroke
To lose sic a faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
To lose, in mid-winter, a cosy auld cloak.
Like a frien' it had served me by night and by day,
And I fondly had thocht it wad last me for aye;
But I've lost it! I've lost it! oh terrible stroke
To lose sic a faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
How oft in the wintry and pitiless night,
That auld shaggy black dog-skin drawn close round my sight,
I've braved the worst wrath of the wind and the weather!
Oh, my auld cloak an' I hae been fast frins thegither!
But I've lost it! I've lost it! my heart is not oak,
And I mourn for my faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
That auld shaggy black dog-skin drawn close round my sight,
I've braved the worst wrath of the wind and the weather!
Oh, my auld cloak an' I hae been fast frins thegither!
But I've lost it! I've lost it! my heart is not oak,
And I mourn for my faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
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At ilka fresh moan o' the searching blast,
My faithful old cloak wad but cling mair fast,
And tho' at times, when the wind blew high,
That wee cape's corner would whip my eye,
Yet I've lost it! I've lost it! And oh, 'tis nae joke
To love and to lose sic a faithful auld cloak!
My faithful old cloak wad but cling mair fast,
And tho' at times, when the wind blew high,
That wee cape's corner would whip my eye,
Yet I've lost it! I've lost it! And oh, 'tis nae joke
To love and to lose sic a faithful auld cloak!
To steal an auld cloak when the weather is cold,
(So writes the wise preacher, famed monarch of old)
Is like singing gay songs to a breaking heart.
Don't sing me: “The best of frins maun part”!
Fu' weel I ken it! My heart is not broke,
But I've lost and for ever a faithfu' auld cloak.
(So writes the wise preacher, famed monarch of old)
Is like singing gay songs to a breaking heart.
Don't sing me: “The best of frins maun part”!
Fu' weel I ken it! My heart is not broke,
But I've lost and for ever a faithfu' auld cloak.
Days—weeks—rolled by—and I hoped to see
That faithfu' auld garment come back to me:
Whole months have I waited—I've waited in vain,
I never shall see that auld crony again.
A voice from within me hath terribly spoke:
You've lost your faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
That faithfu' auld garment come back to me:
Whole months have I waited—I've waited in vain,
I never shall see that auld crony again.
A voice from within me hath terribly spoke:
You've lost your faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
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It never had entered my credulous heart
That friens sic as we could be fated to part.
Hope whispered, “That easy auld frin' on thy back
Shall never desert nor decay”—but alack!
'Twas only a dream, and I bitterly woke
To the loss of my faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
That friens sic as we could be fated to part.
Hope whispered, “That easy auld frin' on thy back
Shall never desert nor decay”—but alack!
'Twas only a dream, and I bitterly woke
To the loss of my faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
They said it was hamely; but oh! around
My warmest affections that cloak had wound;
They ca'd it scanty—'twas short, I know;
'Twad hae been lang enough ere I'd done with it, tho'.
But I'll have it nae longer—I've lost it—och!
I've lost sic a faithfu' auld camblet cloak.
My warmest affections that cloak had wound;
They ca'd it scanty—'twas short, I know;
'Twad hae been lang enough ere I'd done with it, tho'.
But I'll have it nae longer—I've lost it—och!
I've lost sic a faithfu' auld camblet cloak.
How I loved that auld cloak, and it was not because
The weel-worn camblet sae glossy-like was;
I loved it, but not for its beautiful blue;
I loved it because it was warm and true;
But alas! our best hopes are but pillars of smoke,
Fareweel to thee, faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
The weel-worn camblet sae glossy-like was;
I loved it, but not for its beautiful blue;
I loved it because it was warm and true;
But alas! our best hopes are but pillars of smoke,
Fareweel to thee, faithfu' auld camblet cloak!
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AN OLD MAN'S SENSATIONS AT THE RETURN OF SPRING.
I feel thy breath, O Spring!
The fanning of thy wing
On these old withered cheeks—this furrowed brow;
The childhood of the year,
Its morning hour is here,
And mine own childhood breathes around me now.
The fanning of thy wing
On these old withered cheeks—this furrowed brow;
The childhood of the year,
Its morning hour is here,
And mine own childhood breathes around me now.
That tinkling rivulet
Goes singing, dancing yet,
Still sparkling, gleesome, to the sparkling sky;
It murmurs in my ear
A song I love to hear,
A sad, yet soothing strain of years gone by.
Goes singing, dancing yet,
Still sparkling, gleesome, to the sparkling sky;
It murmurs in my ear
A song I love to hear,
A sad, yet soothing strain of years gone by.
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“Gone by”! ah no! for still
My feebler pulses thrill
With childhood's ecstasies of hope and joy;
Though scarce this worn-out frame
Can bear the darting flame,
It lives and leaps—once more I am a boy!
My feebler pulses thrill
With childhood's ecstasies of hope and joy;
Though scarce this worn-out frame
Can bear the darting flame,
It lives and leaps—once more I am a boy!
A painted butterfly
Has just gone dancing by:
Ah! with him fluttered back those happy hours,
When, a light-hearted boy,
I chased the flying toy,
And sank, at last, on earth's soft lap of flowers.
Has just gone dancing by:
Ah! with him fluttered back those happy hours,
When, a light-hearted boy,
I chased the flying toy,
And sank, at last, on earth's soft lap of flowers.
Aye, childhood, thou art here,—
Why art thou then most near,
Bright morn of life, when death's still night draws nigh?
Is it that then the soul
Feels, near her earthly goal,
The heaven that floated round the infant's eye?
Why art thou then most near,
Bright morn of life, when death's still night draws nigh?
Is it that then the soul
Feels, near her earthly goal,
The heaven that floated round the infant's eye?
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Yes, blessed Saviour! thus
Hast thou declared to us;
For child-like spirits only, heaven can see.
And to a soul new-born,
A second childhood's morn
Shall be the daybreak of eternity!
Hast thou declared to us;
For child-like spirits only, heaven can see.
And to a soul new-born,
A second childhood's morn
Shall be the daybreak of eternity!
Mobile, Ala. March 26, 1843.
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THE LOST CHURCH.
These verses were written while men were in the act of dragging down a venerable meeting-house (previously beheaded of its steeple top, by the guillotine of these levelling times) from the oak-crowned hill, where it had so long stood sentinel over one of the most picturesque of New England villages, Bucksport, on the Penobscot. The title of the piece, and probably, in some degree, the tone, were caught from Schiller's “Verlorene Kirche.”
These verses were written while men were in the act of dragging down a venerable meeting-house (previously beheaded of its steeple top, by the guillotine of these levelling times) from the oak-crowned hill, where it had so long stood sentinel over one of the most picturesque of New England villages, Bucksport, on the Penobscot. The title of the piece, and probably, in some degree, the tone, were caught from Schiller's “Verlorene Kirche.”
Had ye a voice, ye venerable trees,
What thrilling tales ye'd tell! Yet, even now,
Oft as, at eve, the sad autumnal breeze
Mysteriously stirs each trembling bough,—
What thrilling tales ye'd tell! Yet, even now,
Oft as, at eve, the sad autumnal breeze
Mysteriously stirs each trembling bough,—
And oft as spring renews your leafy green,
And oft as kindling summer round you glows,
And oft as winter clothes the naked scene,
And crowns this hill-top with his weight of snows,—
And oft as kindling summer round you glows,
And oft as winter clothes the naked scene,
And crowns this hill-top with his weight of snows,—
And at each hour of day,—when silent noon
Broods o'er the town, the river, and the hill,—
And when, at noon of night, the harvest-moon
Silvers your dark-green branches, soft and still,—
Broods o'er the town, the river, and the hill,—
And when, at noon of night, the harvest-moon
Silvers your dark-green branches, soft and still,—
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And when the morning sun, behind your height,
Wakes in their rustling nests the feathered choir,—
And when the dying day's last lingering light
Touches the topmost twigs with golden fire,—
Wakes in their rustling nests the feathered choir,—
And when the dying day's last lingering light
Touches the topmost twigs with golden fire,—
Strange sounds and spirit-like are heard, that chime
With all the winds which through your branches sigh;
Voices that murmur of the olden time,
The ghosts of generations long passed by.
With all the winds which through your branches sigh;
Voices that murmur of the olden time,
The ghosts of generations long passed by.
As, pensively, with reverent step and slow,
I climb this hallowed hill, a stranger here,
The thought of all the dead that sleep below
Brings to my eye the tributary tear.
I climb this hallowed hill, a stranger here,
The thought of all the dead that sleep below
Brings to my eye the tributary tear.
Up this green steep, beneath this deep green shade,
Each Sabbath morn and noon, for many a year,
Came son and sire, matron and village-maid,
And bowed in prayer, and sang God's praises here.
Each Sabbath morn and noon, for many a year,
Came son and sire, matron and village-maid,
And bowed in prayer, and sang God's praises here.
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Here stood for childhood's brow the sacred fount;
Here manhood on its God its troubles cast;
Here age climbed up, as to a Pisgah-mount,—
Here paused, as to its last, long home it passed.
Here manhood on its God its troubles cast;
Here age climbed up, as to a Pisgah-mount,—
Here paused, as to its last, long home it passed.
In life's august procession all passed on
To fill yon silent chambers of the dead;
And now the holy house itself is gone,
Whose aisles once echoed to their frequent tread.
To fill yon silent chambers of the dead;
And now the holy house itself is gone,
Whose aisles once echoed to their frequent tread.
Yet oft, beneath these green old oaks, e'en now,
Forms of the buried past, unseen, sweep by;
And oft the pilgrim, on this hill's lone brow,
Feels a great cloud of witnesses draw nigh.
Forms of the buried past, unseen, sweep by;
And oft the pilgrim, on this hill's lone brow,
Feels a great cloud of witnesses draw nigh.
And though the old walls no more this summit crown,
Still float strange tones of an unearthly bell,—
Each Sabbath morn, and noon, and eve float down
O'er town, and stream, and hill, and distant dell.
Still float strange tones of an unearthly bell,—
Each Sabbath morn, and noon, and eve float down
O'er town, and stream, and hill, and distant dell.
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And though from out this green oak-shade no more
The tall old spire shall rise to meet the sky,
Long from the spot shall Memory heavenward soar,
While Faith, with lifted finger, points on high.
The tall old spire shall rise to meet the sky,
Long from the spot shall Memory heavenward soar,
While Faith, with lifted finger, points on high.
Bucksport, Me. Sept. 1846.
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L'ENVOI AILE.
When fields all bare and Wintry lie,
And over-head the cold clouds frown,
The God of mercy, from on high,
Sends a soft, snowy covering down.
And over-head the cold clouds frown,
The God of mercy, from on high,
Sends a soft, snowy covering down.
The gauzy flakes, in stillness, fall
On tree, and roof, and jutting eave;
A downy mantle over all,
Of magic handy-work, they weave.
On tree, and roof, and jutting eave;
A downy mantle over all,
Of magic handy-work, they weave.
Calm as, in death, an infant sleeps,
Beneath her shroud the pale earth lies,
Yet here and there a myrtle peeps,
And speaks immortal springs and skies.
Beneath her shroud the pale earth lies,
Yet here and there a myrtle peeps,
And speaks immortal springs and skies.
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O'er meadow, and by mountain side,
Her table-cloth of spotless white—
Now Mother Earth spreads far and wide,
And pure hearts feast upon the sight.
Her table-cloth of spotless white—
Now Mother Earth spreads far and wide,
And pure hearts feast upon the sight.
The hay-stacks all about the land,
In bold rotundity that rise,
Like bridal cakes, well frosted stand,
To glad the cattle's greedy eyes.
In bold rotundity that rise,
Like bridal cakes, well frosted stand,
To glad the cattle's greedy eyes.
See the small Snow-Bird, hopping round!
A minstrel-mendicant, he comes;
Where living thing none else is found,
He from God's table pecks the crumbs.
A minstrel-mendicant, he comes;
Where living thing none else is found,
He from God's table pecks the crumbs.
Chance reader of this flying leaf,
Whoe'er thou art, this night to thee
There comes, with message big, though brief,
A heavenly Snow-Bird, Charity.
Whoe'er thou art, this night to thee
There comes, with message big, though brief,
A heavenly Snow-Bird, Charity.
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He begs not for himself alone
The crumb of comfort, and the mite
Of pity, but for them that moan,
His homeless “little ones,” to-night.
The crumb of comfort, and the mite
Of pity, but for them that moan,
His homeless “little ones,” to-night.
God hears the ravens when they cry;
He hears the little sparrow's moan,
When famished 'neath a wintry sky,
She on the house-top sits alone.
He hears the little sparrow's moan,
When famished 'neath a wintry sky,
She on the house-top sits alone.
But wheresoe'er, in want and woe
And sin, his human offspring be,
Thither, O man! thy care must go—
Thy word—thy help—God waits for thee.
And sin, his human offspring be,
Thither, O man! thy care must go—
Thy word—thy help—God waits for thee.
Children of Providence, whose lot
In pleasant, prosperous scenes is cast,
Listen this night and hear, in thought,
The moaning of misfortune's blast!
In pleasant, prosperous scenes is cast,
Listen this night and hear, in thought,
The moaning of misfortune's blast!
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Lo! many a famished spirit comes,
Enters, unseen, this cheerful hall,
And from these tables craves the crumbs—
Let golden crumbs of mercy fall!
Enters, unseen, this cheerful hall,
And from these tables craves the crumbs—
Let golden crumbs of mercy fall!
Hear what our little Snow-Bird sings,
As through this hall, with trembling voice,
He twitters round on paper wings,—
Oh, hear and answer and rejoice!
As through this hall, with trembling voice,
He twitters round on paper wings,—
Oh, hear and answer and rejoice!
Ye who poor starving souls would fill,
And taste, yourselves, Heaven's best delight,
To you our bird presents his bill,
Audit, accept, and pay at sight.
And taste, yourselves, Heaven's best delight,
To you our bird presents his bill,
Audit, accept, and pay at sight.
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BUCHENHEIM.
The wailing wind, O Buchenheim!
Moans round thy halls, and through thy bowers;
Once more pale Autumn's sober time
Looks on dead leaves and faded flowers.
Moans round thy halls, and through thy bowers;
Once more pale Autumn's sober time
Looks on dead leaves and faded flowers.
Yet not for summer-joys alone—
For faded flowers and withered leaves—
For lost perfumes and songsters flown,—
The sighing gale of Autumn grieves.
For faded flowers and withered leaves—
For lost perfumes and songsters flown,—
The sighing gale of Autumn grieves.
The birds that used to come and sing,
In all these woods, their blithesome strain,—
Whose carols hailed each new-born Spring,—
Have winged their way across the main.
In all these woods, their blithesome strain,—
Whose carols hailed each new-born Spring,—
Have winged their way across the main.
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Soon shall their song, in Memory's ear,
By wanderers heard in foreign clime,
Win back their steps to scenes so dear,
And make thee blest, fair Buchenheim!
By wanderers heard in foreign clime,
Win back their steps to scenes so dear,
And make thee blest, fair Buchenheim!
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NEW ENGLAND PENTECOSTAL HYMN.
Sung in Boston, May 25, 1847.
When summer crowned the glowing year,
And bade man's heart rejoice,
Came Judah's tribes from far and near,
With glad and grateful voice.
They brought their gifts—they built their bowers
In pleasant Palestine:—
We heard it all in childhood's hours—
In days and years lang syne.
And bade man's heart rejoice,
Came Judah's tribes from far and near,
With glad and grateful voice.
They brought their gifts—they built their bowers
In pleasant Palestine:—
We heard it all in childhood's hours—
In days and years lang syne.
With festive hearts and festal rites
Jerusalem was blest;
For to his old ancestral heights
Came many a welcome guest.
They sang His name with grateful praise,
Who blessed the corn and vine;—
We heard it all in childhood's days—
In days and years lang syne.
Jerusalem was blest;
For to his old ancestral heights
Came many a welcome guest.
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Who blessed the corn and vine;—
We heard it all in childhood's days—
In days and years lang syne.
Year after year—age after age—
The solemn joy came round,
And from Jehovah's heritage
Went up the grateful sound.
And though enthralled, or exiled long
From Zion's holy shrine,
Remembrance dwelt with yearning strong
In days and years lang syne.
The solemn joy came round,
And from Jehovah's heritage
Went up the grateful sound.
And though enthralled, or exiled long
From Zion's holy shrine,
Remembrance dwelt with yearning strong
In days and years lang syne.
And oft, when May its first-fruits brought,
And Pentecost passed by,
Expectant Israel fondly thought
Her summer, too, was nigh.
For though the Gentile held his towers
Within her walls divine,
Hope saw in vision glorious hours
And years like those lang syne.
And Pentecost passed by,
Expectant Israel fondly thought
Her summer, too, was nigh.
For though the Gentile held his towers
Within her walls divine,
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And years like those lang syne.
Moriah! in thy place of prayer,
The hour is coming now;
A boding hush is on the air,
And on each reverent brow.
In waiting stillness there they bend
Around a viewless shrine,
With whose fresh hopes and memories blend
Old dreams of years lang syne.
The hour is coming now;
A boding hush is on the air,
And on each reverent brow.
In waiting stillness there they bend
Around a viewless shrine,
With whose fresh hopes and memories blend
Old dreams of years lang syne.
Nor waited they in vain—it came,—
In that momentous hour,—
The rushing wind—the tongue of flame—
The spirit and the power.
'Tis lang—lang syne, my friends—
'Tis lang—lang syne—
But we'll ne'er forget our mighty debt
To the men of Palestine!
In that momentous hour,—
The rushing wind—the tongue of flame—
The spirit and the power.
'Tis lang—lang syne, my friends—
'Tis lang—lang syne—
But we'll ne'er forget our mighty debt
To the men of Palestine!
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The seed they sowed in tears and blood,—
What fruit untold it bore!
That sent new seed o'er many a flood
And distant, darkened shore.
'Twas wafted to our own loved land
Across a stormy brine,
And planted well by Plymouth strand
In days and years lang syne.
What fruit untold it bore!
That sent new seed o'er many a flood
And distant, darkened shore.
'Twas wafted to our own loved land
Across a stormy brine,
And planted well by Plymouth strand
In days and years lang syne.
That seed has grown a mighty tree—
That tree is growing yet—
And we, the children of the free,
Beneath its shade are met,
Our Pentecostal feast to keep,
And in our souls enshrine
The sainted dead who fell asleep
In days and years lang syne.
That tree is growing yet—
And we, the children of the free,
Beneath its shade are met,
Our Pentecostal feast to keep,
And in our souls enshrine
The sainted dead who fell asleep
In days and years lang syne.
53
“OUR COUNTRY—RIGHT OR WRONG.”
“Our country—right or wrong”!—
That were a traitor's song—
Let no true patriot's pen such words indite!
Who loves his native land,
Let him, with heart, voice, hand,
Say: “Country or no country—speed the right!”
That were a traitor's song—
Let no true patriot's pen such words indite!
Who loves his native land,
Let him, with heart, voice, hand,
Say: “Country or no country—speed the right!”
“Our Country—right or wrong”!—
O Christian men! how long
Shall He who bled on Calvary plead in vain?
How long, unheeded, call
Where War's gashed victims fall,
While sisters, widows, orphans, mourn the slain!
O Christian men! how long
Shall He who bled on Calvary plead in vain?
How long, unheeded, call
Where War's gashed victims fall,
While sisters, widows, orphans, mourn the slain!
54
“Our Country—right or wrong”!—
O man of God, be strong!
Take God's whole armor for the holy fray.
Gird thee with Truth;—make Right
Thy breastplate;—in the might
Of God stand steadfast in the evil day!
O man of God, be strong!
Take God's whole armor for the holy fray.
Gird thee with Truth;—make Right
Thy breastplate;—in the might
Of God stand steadfast in the evil day!
“Our Country—right or wrong”!—
Each image of the throng
Of ghastly woes that rise upon thy sight,
O let it move thy heart,
Man! man! whoe'er thou art,
To say: “God guide our struggling country right!”
Each image of the throng
Of ghastly woes that rise upon thy sight,
O let it move thy heart,
Man! man! whoe'er thou art,
To say: “God guide our struggling country right!”
Newport, 1847.
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