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 |  |
And ye, bright spirits of Columbia's sires,
Ere like Elijah, rapt in heavenward fires,
Ye have quite vanished from your children's gaze,
Borne on bright chariots through “the sapphire blaze,”
Drop your inspired mantles ere ye go,
Upon your sons who linger still below!
'Tis not enough to track the star-paved road,
Which bears ye upward to your blest abode.
We need, alas! the wisdom and the might
Which touched your prophet-souls with heavenly light.
Not for the flashing sword and rolling drum,
Not for the withering spell, when kings sat dumb
Before your trumpet-blast and thunder-stroke,
Do we your presence and your power invoke;
But for the milder spirit which impelled
To labors still severer, and upheld
Patriot and sage to do and suffer all,
Rather than live a priest's or despot's thrall;—
For the great hope which gleamed on ye afar,
In patient thought, as in the storm of war—
For truth, for holiness, for liberty—
These are the gifts for which we turn to ye!
Ere like Elijah, rapt in heavenward fires,
Ye have quite vanished from your children's gaze,
Borne on bright chariots through “the sapphire blaze,”
Drop your inspired mantles ere ye go,
Upon your sons who linger still below!
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Which bears ye upward to your blest abode.
We need, alas! the wisdom and the might
Which touched your prophet-souls with heavenly light.
Not for the flashing sword and rolling drum,
Not for the withering spell, when kings sat dumb
Before your trumpet-blast and thunder-stroke,
Do we your presence and your power invoke;
But for the milder spirit which impelled
To labors still severer, and upheld
Patriot and sage to do and suffer all,
Rather than live a priest's or despot's thrall;—
For the great hope which gleamed on ye afar,
In patient thought, as in the storm of war—
For truth, for holiness, for liberty—
These are the gifts for which we turn to ye!
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |