 | Rhymes with reason and without |  |
226
FRANKLIN.
WRITTEN FOR A NEW YORK PRINTERS' FESTIVAL.
Mother of Arts! Thy children come
Fraternal faith anew to plight,
As brethren round the hearth of home
On some time-honored festal night;
To cast the harsh emotions by
The turmoil of the world imparts,
And crowd the quick hours, as they fly,
With melody from genial hearts.
Fraternal faith anew to plight,
As brethren round the hearth of home
On some time-honored festal night;
To cast the harsh emotions by
The turmoil of the world imparts,
And crowd the quick hours, as they fly,
With melody from genial hearts.
All sorrows borne, or ills endured,
Forgotten be in present joy;
Relax the nerve to toil inured
In Friendship's beam, in Mirth's employ;
Most blest the season that can bring
Respite from Care's corroding chain,
Where flowers of soul luxuriant spring,
To make the saddened smile again.
Forgotten be in present joy;
Relax the nerve to toil inured
In Friendship's beam, in Mirth's employ;
Most blest the season that can bring
Respite from Care's corroding chain,
Where flowers of soul luxuriant spring,
To make the saddened smile again.
Here, as we mingle souls to-night,
One thought preëminent must press,
One topic to impart delight,
That waning years make never less:
We speak the name that gilds our art,
Impressed on Time's illumined page,
And cherished warm in every heart,
The Printer's glorious heritage.
One thought preëminent must press,
One topic to impart delight,
That waning years make never less:
227
Impressed on Time's illumined page,
And cherished warm in every heart,
The Printer's glorious heritage.
The name of Franklin! And the blood
Stirs quicker at its magic sound,
And busy memory brings a flood
Of mighty deeds to ray it round.
And that great name, our cynosure,
Will ever cheer us with its light,—
Like the north star 't will still endure,
When our small suns have sunk in night.
Stirs quicker at its magic sound,
And busy memory brings a flood
Of mighty deeds to ray it round.
And that great name, our cynosure,
Will ever cheer us with its light,—
Like the north star 't will still endure,
When our small suns have sunk in night.
Mother of Arts! We tribute bring
Of honor to thy mighty son,
Whose praises every land doth sing
That science sheds her light upon.
Our brother! 'T is no idle boast,—
A proud affinity we claim;
And this to-night shall be our toast:—
Our brother-craftsman Franklin's fame!
Of honor to thy mighty son,
Whose praises every land doth sing
That science sheds her light upon.
Our brother! 'T is no idle boast,—
A proud affinity we claim;
And this to-night shall be our toast:—
Our brother-craftsman Franklin's fame!
| Rhymes with reason and without | |