 | Later Lyrics |  |
33
HYMN FOR A SPRING FESTIVAL,
MAY 27, 1862.
In this glad time of Spring
Nature doth garlands bring,
Crowning her joys.
All that was seared with frost,
Buried, and mourned for lost,
With a new Pentecost,
Flame-touched, doth rise.
Nature doth garlands bring,
Crowning her joys.
All that was seared with frost,
Buried, and mourned for lost,
With a new Pentecost,
Flame-touched, doth rise.
Come, then, ye sons of men!
Stand, and take heart again,
Blessing the year.
Earth fills her breast with food;
Odors enchant the wood;
Each leafy solitude
Music doth cheer.
Stand, and take heart again,
Blessing the year.
Earth fills her breast with food;
Odors enchant the wood;
Each leafy solitude
Music doth cheer.
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Where the war-trumpets blow,
Our legions meet the foe
With deathful din;
But hosts unseen are there,
Fight and fatigue to share:
So we but strive with prayer,
Steadfast, we win.
Our legions meet the foe
With deathful din;
But hosts unseen are there,
Fight and fatigue to share:
So we but strive with prayer,
Steadfast, we win.
O hearts that wonder long!
O Truth that sufferest wrong!
Meet in your might;
Lift the pure banner high;
Raise one impassioned cry,
Nobler than victory,—
“God speed the right!”
O Truth that sufferest wrong!
Meet in your might;
Lift the pure banner high;
Raise one impassioned cry,
Nobler than victory,—
“God speed the right!”
Through the dark years of crime,
For this appointed time
Justice did wait.
Purpose and Hope, that lay
Passive and dumb as clay,
Stand, in God's chosen day,
Stronger than Fate.
For this appointed time
Justice did wait.
Purpose and Hope, that lay
Passive and dumb as clay,
Stand, in God's chosen day,
Stronger than Fate.
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We then, with faith increased,
Hold our fraternal feast,
Death making sign,
Solemn as when he stood
Where our Supremest Good
Bade memory count his blood
Dearer than wine.
Hold our fraternal feast,
Death making sign,
Solemn as when he stood
Where our Supremest Good
Bade memory count his blood
Dearer than wine.
All glories, Lord! are thine;
All joys are throbs divine
Pulsed from thy breast.
As thine infinity,
Peace-crowned, returns to thee,
Let our toil gathered be
Into thy rest.
All joys are throbs divine
Pulsed from thy breast.
As thine infinity,
Peace-crowned, returns to thee,
Let our toil gathered be
Into thy rest.
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