A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
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 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
Time calls to us to-day. He bids us look
O'er the dim leaves of that recorded book
Which mortals call the Past. The days of old
Come thronging on us fast, as we unfold
The mystic pages—while unseen flit o'er us
Those venerable forms who went before us.
Perchance e'en now their consecrated shades
Are gazing through the silence that pervades
This festive hour: they come with smiles serene,
Beaming like holy moonlight o'er the scene:—
They come, with high and peaceful brows all bright,
And crowned with wreaths of amaranthine light:
They have no sorrows now: they've won at last
A home whose peace no shadow can o'ercast,
Where far beyond the cold wave, and the tomb,
They dwell in bowers of eternal bloom.
O'er the dim leaves of that recorded book
Which mortals call the Past. The days of old
Come thronging on us fast, as we unfold
The mystic pages—while unseen flit o'er us
Those venerable forms who went before us.
Perchance e'en now their consecrated shades
Are gazing through the silence that pervades
This festive hour: they come with smiles serene,
Beaming like holy moonlight o'er the scene:—
They come, with high and peaceful brows all bright,
And crowned with wreaths of amaranthine light:
They have no sorrows now: they've won at last
A home whose peace no shadow can o'ercast,
Where far beyond the cold wave, and the tomb,
They dwell in bowers of eternal bloom.
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |