 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
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VII.
HYMNS AND ODES FOR ANNIVERSARY, CENTENNIAL, AND OTHER CELEBRATIONS.
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[I. On the birth-day of Time, the young monarch of light]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of Washington's Birth-day by the Washington Benevolent Society of Newburyport, February 22d, 1813.
On the birth-day of Time, the young monarch of light
With his beams waked from slumber the virgin creation;—
So, dispelling the gloom of Cimmerian night,
The lustre of Washington burst on our nation.
And this is the morn
The Hero was born,
Whose virtues shall History's pages adorn;
And his spirit awakes from the sleep of the grave,
To meet with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
With his beams waked from slumber the virgin creation;—
So, dispelling the gloom of Cimmerian night,
The lustre of Washington burst on our nation.
And this is the morn
The Hero was born,
Whose virtues shall History's pages adorn;
And his spirit awakes from the sleep of the grave,
To meet with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
The same spirit descends, borne on pinions of light,
That guided to fame our immortal commander;
O'er the ashes of Moscow she urges her flight,
And smiles while she hovers around Alexander.
She points to his rest
In the bowers of the blest,
Where the sunshine of peace warms the patriot's breast;
Where Washington, waked from the sleep of the grave,
Waits to welcome his friend;—for his friend is the brave.
That guided to fame our immortal commander;
O'er the ashes of Moscow she urges her flight,
And smiles while she hovers around Alexander.
She points to his rest
In the bowers of the blest,
Where the sunshine of peace warms the patriot's breast;
Where Washington, waked from the sleep of the grave,
Waits to welcome his friend;—for his friend is the brave.
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The Serpent of France, nursed on carnage and spoil,
In whose poisonous train war and pestilence follow,
In agony writhes his voluminous coil,
Like the Python, assailed by the shafts of Apollo.
And, while patriot zeal
Gives the monster to feel
The lance of Koutousoff and Wellington's steel,
The spirit of Washington wakes from his grave,
To rejoice with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
In whose poisonous train war and pestilence follow,
In agony writhes his voluminous coil,
Like the Python, assailed by the shafts of Apollo.
And, while patriot zeal
Gives the monster to feel
The lance of Koutousoff and Wellington's steel,
The spirit of Washington wakes from his grave,
To rejoice with his friends;—for his friends are the brave.
Though Columbia, ingulfed in a vortex of blood,
Hurls her gauntlet, unarmed, at the proud Queen of Ocean;—
Let thy spirit, great Hero, descend on the flood,
And rescue thy child from the mighty commotion.—
And, with boundless acclaim,
We'll ascribe to thy name
All that 's sacred in honor, or lasting in fame;
Till the fields of our fathers be Liberty's grave,
And virtue expire in the breast of the brave.
Hurls her gauntlet, unarmed, at the proud Queen of Ocean;—
Let thy spirit, great Hero, descend on the flood,
And rescue thy child from the mighty commotion.—
And, with boundless acclaim,
We'll ascribe to thy name
All that 's sacred in honor, or lasting in fame;
Till the fields of our fathers be Liberty's grave,
And virtue expire in the breast of the brave.
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[II. Hark! 'tis the children of Washington, pouring]
Hark! 'tis the children of Washington, pouring
The full tide of song to the conqueror's praise,
Whose brows our young eagle, triumphantly soaring
From the dun smoke of battle, encircled with bays.
And while the choral song
Floats on the air along,
Blending the tones of the mellowing strain,
Bright o'er the melting soul
New scenes of glory roll,
Glory that spreads its broad blaze o'er the main.
The full tide of song to the conqueror's praise,
Whose brows our young eagle, triumphantly soaring
From the dun smoke of battle, encircled with bays.
And while the choral song
Floats on the air along,
Blending the tones of the mellowing strain,
Bright o'er the melting soul
New scenes of glory roll,
Glory that spreads its broad blaze o'er the main.
Hail to the brave, who, in language of thunder,
Borne on the foam-crested billows to war,
Claim of their foe no inglorious plunder,—
The trident of Neptune and Victory's car.
And, while Columbia's stars
Wave o'er her gallant tars,
Bounding in triumph along the blue deep,
See, o'er the bloody wave,
Many a Briton's grave,
The proud Queen of Ocean disconsolate weep.
Borne on the foam-crested billows to war,
Claim of their foe no inglorious plunder,—
The trident of Neptune and Victory's car.
And, while Columbia's stars
Wave o'er her gallant tars,
Bounding in triumph along the blue deep,
See, o'er the bloody wave,
Many a Briton's grave,
The proud Queen of Ocean disconsolate weep.
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Hail to you orient star, that adorning
And gilding the skies with its ravishing light,
Blazes unquenched on the forehead of morning,
And dispels the cold gloom of oppression and night.
'T is by that ruddy glow
Slaves and their tyrant know
Freedom and Hope to the world have returned;
So shone the pilot star,
Hailed from the east afar,
That over the manger of Bethlehem burned.
And gilding the skies with its ravishing light,
Blazes unquenched on the forehead of morning,
And dispels the cold gloom of oppression and night.
'T is by that ruddy glow
Slaves and their tyrant know
Freedom and Hope to the world have returned;
So shone the pilot star,
Hailed from the east afar,
That over the manger of Bethlehem burned.
Peace to the dust, that in silence reposes
Beneath the dark boughs of the cypress and yew;
Let spring deck the spot with her earliest roses,
And heaven wash their leaves in its holiest dew.
Calm as the hero's soul,
Let the Potomac roll,
Watering the willow that over him weeps,
And, from his glassy wave,
Softly reflect the grave
Where all that was mortal of Washington sleeps.
Beneath the dark boughs of the cypress and yew;
Let spring deck the spot with her earliest roses,
And heaven wash their leaves in its holiest dew.
Calm as the hero's soul,
Let the Potomac roll,
Watering the willow that over him weeps,
And, from his glassy wave,
Softly reflect the grave
Where all that was mortal of Washington sleeps.
Hail, holy shade! we would proudly inherit
The flame that once deigned in thy bosom to glow,
While yet but one spark of thy patriot spirit,
Thy godlike benevolence, lingers below.
Ne'er let thy favorite tree,
Sacred to Liberty,
By anarchy's sulphury sirocco be riven;
But, in immortal bloom,
Rise o'er its planter's tomb,
Rich with perfume as the breezes of heaven.
The flame that once deigned in thy bosom to glow,
While yet but one spark of thy patriot spirit,
Thy godlike benevolence, lingers below.
Ne'er let thy favorite tree,
Sacred to Liberty,
By anarchy's sulphury sirocco be riven;
But, in immortal bloom,
Rise o'er its planter's tomb,
Rich with perfume as the breezes of heaven.
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[III. Day of glory! welcome day]
Day of glory! welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,
On the heights where squadrons wheeled,
When a tyrant's thunder pealed
O'er the trembling seas.
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,
On the heights where squadrons wheeled,
When a tyrant's thunder pealed
O'er the trembling seas.
God of armies! did thy “stars
In their courses” smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn
Who for freedom died.
In their courses” smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn
Who for freedom died.
God of peace!—whose spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,
Now the storm is o'er;—
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future Washingtons
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there 's war no more.
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,
Now the storm is o'er;—
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future Washingtons
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there 's war no more.
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By the patriot's hallowed rest,
By the warrior's gory breast,—
Never let our graves be pressed
By a despot's throne;
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,—let our heirs
Bow to Thee alone.
By the warrior's gory breast,—
Never let our graves be pressed
By a despot's throne;
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,—let our heirs
Bow to Thee alone.
[IV. The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they?]
The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they?—
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storm,
And white the shore with snow.
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storm,
And white the shore with snow.
Chorus.
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, &c.
The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;—
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
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When the heavens looked dark, is gone;—
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
Chorus.
It is gone from the bay, where it spread that day, &c.
The Pilgrim exile,—sainted name!
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—
But the Pilgrim,—where is he?
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—
But the Pilgrim,—where is he?
Chorus.
He is not in the bay, as he was that day, &c.
The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest;
When Summer 's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.
When Summer 's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.
Chorus.
Not such was the ray, that he shed that day, &c.
The Pilgrim spirit has not fled;
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.
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And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
Chorus.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, &c.[V. O, is not this a holy spot]
O, is not this a holy spot!
'T is the high place of Freedom's birth!
God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth?
'T is the high place of Freedom's birth!
God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth?
Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow.
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow.
But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.
Here sleeps their dust; 't is holy ground;
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathered round,
To lay our offering on their grave.
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathered round,
To lay our offering on their grave.
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Free as the winds around us blow,
Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.
Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.
But on their deeds no shade shall fall,
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame;
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame;
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
VI.
WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye who will.
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it!—From the vale
On they come!—And will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're a-fire!
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Who have done it!—From the vale
On they come!—And will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must;—
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where Heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell!
Die we may,—and die we must;—
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where Heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell!
[VII. Two hundred years!—two hundred years]
Two hundred years!—two hundred years!
How much of human power and pride,
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!
How much of human power and pride,
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!
The red man, at his horrid rite,
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,
His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon,—
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,
His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon,—
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His dance, his yell, his council-fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.
And that pale Pilgrim band is gone,
That, on this shore, with trembling trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on
The ark of freedom and of God.
That, on this shore, with trembling trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on
The ark of freedom and of God.
And war,—that, since, o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark,—its storm is still.
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark,—its storm is still.
Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,
Has raised, and shown, and swept along.
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,
Has raised, and shown, and swept along.
'T is like a dream when one awakes,—
This vision of the scenes of old;
'T is like the moon when morning breaks,
'T is like a tale round watch-fires told.
This vision of the scenes of old;
'T is like the moon when morning breaks,
'T is like a tale round watch-fires told.
Then what are we?—then what are we?
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.
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God of our fathers,—in whose sight
The thousand years, that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,—
The thousand years, that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,—
Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.
[VIII. Break forth in song, ye trees]
[_]
Written for the Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Boston, September 17th, 1830.
Break forth in song, ye trees,
As, through your tops, the breeze
Sweeps from the sea!
For, on its rushing wings,
To your cool shades and springs,
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled though free.
As, through your tops, the breeze
Sweeps from the sea!
For, on its rushing wings,
To your cool shades and springs,
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled though free.
Ye sister hills, lay down
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due;—
These are the great of earth,
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great in their well proved worth,
Firm hearts and true.
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due;—
These are the great of earth,
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great in their well proved worth,
Firm hearts and true.
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These are the living lights,
That from your bold, green heights,
Shall shine afar,
Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, toward the flame
Come, as the Magi came
Toward Bethlehem's star.
That from your bold, green heights,
Shall shine afar,
Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, toward the flame
Come, as the Magi came
Toward Bethlehem's star.
Gone are those great and good,
Who here, in peril, stood
And raised their hymn.
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim.
Who here, in peril, stood
And raised their hymn.
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim.
Ye temples, that to God
Rise where our fathers trod,
Guard well your trust,—
The faith, that dared the sea,
The truth, that made them free,
Their cherished purity,
Their garnered dust.
Rise where our fathers trod,
Guard well your trust,—
The faith, that dared the sea,
The truth, that made them free,
Their cherished purity,
Their garnered dust.
Thou high and holy One,
Whose care for sire and son
All nature fills,
While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let thy light repose
On these our hills.
Whose care for sire and son
All nature fills,
While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let thy light repose
On these our hills.
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[IX. To Thee, beneath whose eye]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the Birth-day of George Washington, Boston, February 22d, 1832.
To Thee, beneath whose eye
Each circling century
Obedient rolls,
Our nation, in its prime,
Looked with a faith sublime,
And trusted, in “the time
That tried men's souls,”—
Each circling century
Obedient rolls,
Our nation, in its prime,
Looked with a faith sublime,
And trusted, in “the time
That tried men's souls,”—
When, from this gate of heaven,
People and priest were driven
By fire and sword,
And, where thy saints had prayed,
The harnessed war-horse neighed,
And horsemen's trumpets brayed
In harsh accord.
People and priest were driven
By fire and sword,
And, where thy saints had prayed,
The harnessed war-horse neighed,
And horsemen's trumpets brayed
In harsh accord.
Nor was our fathers' trust,
Thou Mighty One and Just,
Then put to shame;
“Up to the hills,” for light,
Looked they in peril's night,
And, from yon guardian height,
Deliverance came.
Thou Mighty One and Just,
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“Up to the hills,” for light,
Looked they in peril's night,
And, from yon guardian height,
Deliverance came.
There, like an angel form,
Sent down to still a storm,
Stood Washington!
Clouds broke and rolled away;
Foes fled in pale dismay;
Wreathed were his brows with bay,
When war was done.
Sent down to still a storm,
Stood Washington!
Clouds broke and rolled away;
Foes fled in pale dismay;
Wreathed were his brows with bay,
When war was done.
God of our sires and sons,
Let other Washingtons
Our country bless,
And, like the brave and wise
Of by-gone centuries,
Show that true greatness lies
In righteousness.
Let other Washingtons
Our country bless,
And, like the brave and wise
Of by-gone centuries,
Show that true greatness lies
In righteousness.
The Old South Church was taken possession of by the British, while they held Boston, and converted into barracks for the cavalry, the pews being cut up for fuel, or used in constructing stalls for their horses.
From his position on Dorchester Heights, that overlook the town, General Washington succeeded in compelling the British forces to evacuate Boston.
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[X. Long, in a nameless grave]
[_]
Written for the Celebration of the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Battle of Lexington, April 20th, 1835.
Long, in a nameless grave,
Bones of the true and brave!
Have ye reposed.
This day, our hands have dressed,
This day, our prayers have blessed
A chamber for your rest;
And now 'tis closed.
Bones of the true and brave!
Have ye reposed.
This day, our hands have dressed,
This day, our prayers have blessed
A chamber for your rest;
And now 'tis closed.
Sleep on, ye slaughtered ones!
Your spirit, in your sons,
Shall guard your dust,
While winter comes in gloom,
While spring returns with bloom,
Nay,—till this honored tomb
Gives up its trust.
Your spirit, in your sons,
Shall guard your dust,
While winter comes in gloom,
While spring returns with bloom,
Nay,—till this honored tomb
Gives up its trust.
When war's first blast was heard,
These men stood forth to guard
Thy house, O God!
And now thy house shall keep
Its vigils where they sleep,
And long its shadow sweep
O'er their green sod.
These men stood forth to guard
Thy house, O God!
And now thy house shall keep
Its vigils where they sleep,
And long its shadow sweep
O'er their green sod.
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In morning's prime they bled;
And morning finds their bed
With tears all wet;
Tears that thy hosts of light,
Rising in order bright,
To watch their tomb all night,
Shed for them yet.
And morning finds their bed
With tears all wet;
Tears that thy hosts of light,
Rising in order bright,
To watch their tomb all night,
Shed for them yet.
Nought shall their slumber break;
For “they shall not awake,
Nor yet be raised
Out of their sleep,” before
Thy heavens, now arching o'er
Their couch, shall be no more.—
Thy name be praised!
For “they shall not awake,
Nor yet be raised
Out of their sleep,” before
Thy heavens, now arching o'er
Their couch, shall be no more.—
Thy name be praised!
The anniversary of the battle, the 19th, occurring on Sunday, this celebration took place on the following day.
[XI. Not now, O God, beneath the trees]
[_]
Written for the Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Dedham, September 21st, 1836.
Not now, O God, beneath the trees
That shade this plain, at night's cold noon
Do Indian war-songs load the breeze,
Or wolves sit howling to the moon.
That shade this plain, at night's cold noon
Do Indian war-songs load the breeze,
Or wolves sit howling to the moon.
The foes, the fears, our fathers felt
Have, with our fathers, passed away;
And where, in their dark hours, they knelt,
We come to praise thee and to pray.
Have, with our fathers, passed away;
And where, in their dark hours, they knelt,
We come to praise thee and to pray.
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We praise thee that thou plantedst them,
And mad'st thy heavens drop down their dew.
We pray that, shooting from their stem,
We long may flourish where they grew.
And mad'st thy heavens drop down their dew.
We pray that, shooting from their stem,
We long may flourish where they grew.
And, Father, leave us not alone;—
Thou hast been, and art still our trust;—
Be thou our fortress, till our own
Shall mingle with our fathers' dust.
Thou hast been, and art still our trust;—
Be thou our fortress, till our own
Shall mingle with our fathers' dust.
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