 | [Rhymed reminiscences, in] The first centenary of the North Church and Society, in Salem, Massachusetts |  |
69
RHYMED REMINISCENCES.
Is there a place, in these impetuous times,
For sentimental, retrospective rhymes?
Will the express train of this rushing age
Accommodate a floral pilgrimage?
Can Poetry or Piety beguile
The iron car of Fate to stay awhile,
And let its favored prisoners pause an hour
To rock in Fancy's barge, or rest in Memory's bower?
For sentimental, retrospective rhymes?
Will the express train of this rushing age
Accommodate a floral pilgrimage?
Can Poetry or Piety beguile
The iron car of Fate to stay awhile,
And let its favored prisoners pause an hour
To rock in Fancy's barge, or rest in Memory's bower?
There are, who say, In this new morning's blaze,
Why rake amidst the dust of buried days?
Not in that heap shall truth, the diamond, lie,
The future shows it sparkling in the sky!
On! is the word;—your antiquarian lore
Is idle, childish pastime—nothing more!
Heed not the tale, O friends! a larger thought
To musing souls by earth and sky is taught.
Why rake amidst the dust of buried days?
Not in that heap shall truth, the diamond, lie,
The future shows it sparkling in the sky!
On! is the word;—your antiquarian lore
Is idle, childish pastime—nothing more!
Heed not the tale, O friends! a larger thought
To musing souls by earth and sky is taught.
The modern traveller in his dizzying car
Sees calmly that alone which lies afar:
To scan the nearer things he vainly tries—
They speed too fast for his bewildered eyes.
Relieved, his vision rests where, far and fair,
The landscape stretches in serener air.
How oft my heart leaped up with mute delight,
When, as a boy, I journeyed home at night,
To see, while trees and lights behind us fled,
The moon and stars ride with us overhead.
So with the things of time—like dreams they glide—
The eternal things are ever at our side.
The present moments sparkle, fade and flee—
The past is part of God's eternity.
Sees calmly that alone which lies afar:
To scan the nearer things he vainly tries—
They speed too fast for his bewildered eyes.
Relieved, his vision rests where, far and fair,
The landscape stretches in serener air.
How oft my heart leaped up with mute delight,
70
To see, while trees and lights behind us fled,
The moon and stars ride with us overhead.
So with the things of time—like dreams they glide—
The eternal things are ever at our side.
The present moments sparkle, fade and flee—
The past is part of God's eternity.
Once, in a tropic clime, I sailed away
From a steep coast across a tranquil bay,
When lo! behind the fast receding shore,
Up rose the inland hills, and more and more
Lifted their greeting summits, green and clear,
And made the friendly land seem following near
So, as we voyage o'er the sea of time,
The past looms up, mysterious and sublime,
Lifts its fair peaks into the tranquil sky,
And with its greeting, follows as we fly.
From a steep coast across a tranquil bay,
When lo! behind the fast receding shore,
Up rose the inland hills, and more and more
Lifted their greeting summits, green and clear,
And made the friendly land seem following near
So, as we voyage o'er the sea of time,
The past looms up, mysterious and sublime,
Lifts its fair peaks into the tranquil sky,
And with its greeting, follows as we fly.
When summer-nightfall veils the landscape o'er,
From upland meadow to the murmuring shore,
How sweet, to men who sail the darkling seas,
Low voices borne from land on evening's breeze!
So from afar, o'er Memory's mystic deep,
Like sounds from home, melodious whispers creep,
Of souls that wait on some far inland shore
To welcome back long absent friends once more.
Oft on the sea of life these tones we hear,
That make that distant shore seem strangely near.
A spirit's breath is in the quivering breeze
That sweeps the invisible wind-harp of the seas;
A spirit's voice breathes out a plaintive strain,
With sweetest cadence in each sad refrain;
A song of songs, where all the heart has known
Of grief or gladness blends in every tone.
From upland meadow to the murmuring shore,
How sweet, to men who sail the darkling seas,
Low voices borne from land on evening's breeze!
So from afar, o'er Memory's mystic deep,
Like sounds from home, melodious whispers creep,
Of souls that wait on some far inland shore
To welcome back long absent friends once more.
Oft on the sea of life these tones we hear,
That make that distant shore seem strangely near.
A spirit's breath is in the quivering breeze
That sweeps the invisible wind-harp of the seas;
A spirit's voice breathes out a plaintive strain,
With sweetest cadence in each sad refrain;
A song of songs, where all the heart has known
Of grief or gladness blends in every tone.
“Dame Memory,” (so majestic Milton sings,
In speech that like a silver trumpet rings)—
“Dame Memory and her siren daughters”—nay—
No flattering, false, deceptive sirens they!
Though oft across life's waves their mournful smile
The pilgrim's fond, reverted glance beguile,
Though, by the magic of their soothing strain,
Springs tender pleasure from remembered pain,
Though, over days that faded long ago,
Their tender music flings a moonlight glow,
That moon with no delusive glory gleams:
Forth from a hidden sun that lustre streams,
And every joy that has been, prophesies
Of bliss that shall be in unfading skies.
In speech that like a silver trumpet rings)—
“Dame Memory and her siren daughters”—nay—
71
Though oft across life's waves their mournful smile
The pilgrim's fond, reverted glance beguile,
Though, by the magic of their soothing strain,
Springs tender pleasure from remembered pain,
Though, over days that faded long ago,
Their tender music flings a moonlight glow,
That moon with no delusive glory gleams:
Forth from a hidden sun that lustre streams,
And every joy that has been, prophesies
Of bliss that shall be in unfading skies.
O pale and pensive Memory! thou, no less
Than Hope, thy sister, art a prophetess!
Men picture thee alone amidst thy dead,
In fruitless wailing o'er the days long fled,
With tearful eyes that passionately yearn
To wake a life that slumbers in the urn;
While bright-eyed Hope with sun-tipped pinion flies
To hail the life new-streaming from the skies.
Young Hope—Old Memory: so the poets feign;
But is it so? Are not these daughters twain
Of God, like those two sons of light, twin-born—
The Star of evening and the Star of morn?
And what though Hesper in the sunset skies
Looks a mute solace for the day that dies,
Doth not that gracious herald point the way
To ever-dawning, never-dying day?
Aye, Memory hopes—she hopes and prophesies;
Of life eternal she too testifies;
She is the evening star whose tender light
Heralds the day of God, that knows no night;
The farewell smile of day in western skies
Greets the far East, where soon the sun shall rise.
Than Hope, thy sister, art a prophetess!
Men picture thee alone amidst thy dead,
In fruitless wailing o'er the days long fled,
With tearful eyes that passionately yearn
To wake a life that slumbers in the urn;
While bright-eyed Hope with sun-tipped pinion flies
To hail the life new-streaming from the skies.
Young Hope—Old Memory: so the poets feign;
But is it so? Are not these daughters twain
Of God, like those two sons of light, twin-born—
The Star of evening and the Star of morn?
And what though Hesper in the sunset skies
Looks a mute solace for the day that dies,
Doth not that gracious herald point the way
To ever-dawning, never-dying day?
Aye, Memory hopes—she hopes and prophesies;
Of life eternal she too testifies;
She is the evening star whose tender light
Heralds the day of God, that knows no night;
The farewell smile of day in western skies
Greets the far East, where soon the sun shall rise.
Hope—Memory—blessed pair! how sweetly gleams
O'er life the lustre of their mingling beams!
There comes, e'en here on earth, full many an hour,
When, by the stress of thought's transfiguring power,
Some joy or sorrow, with absorbing sway,
Swells to an age the limits of a day:
And lo! the sun stands still o'er Gibeon,
While softly, from the veil of Ajalon,
The lingering moon looks forth—and moon and sun
Like rose and lily, weave their lights in one;
Moonrise and sunset—Hope and Memory—blend
To make the Heavenly day that knows no end.
O'er life the lustre of their mingling beams!
There comes, e'en here on earth, full many an hour,
When, by the stress of thought's transfiguring power,
72
Swells to an age the limits of a day:
And lo! the sun stands still o'er Gibeon,
While softly, from the veil of Ajalon,
The lingering moon looks forth—and moon and sun
Like rose and lily, weave their lights in one;
Moonrise and sunset—Hope and Memory—blend
To make the Heavenly day that knows no end.
The past is not all passed, not wholly dead!
Our life still echoes to its voice and tread.
The soul awakes—and lo! like phantoms glide
The living shapes that bustle at our side;
The while our dead dwell on an inner mount,
Made green forever by the living fount,
Where this imposing world's tumultuous roar
Dies in faint murmurs on an inland shore.
Our life still echoes to its voice and tread.
The soul awakes—and lo! like phantoms glide
The living shapes that bustle at our side;
The while our dead dwell on an inner mount,
Made green forever by the living fount,
Where this imposing world's tumultuous roar
Dies in faint murmurs on an inland shore.
What is your boasted Present Hour, and where?
Ye seek to clutch it, and it is not there!
The Past, the Future—these, in friendly strife,
Make the perpetual present of our life.
On that vast sea, the rushing flood of Time,
Where ages, years and moments sink and climb,
'Twixt the last ridge and the next moment's brow
Comes the brief instant dreamy souls call now,
And deem a foothold firm to stand upon;
Yet, ere the mind can grasp it, it is gone!
The only true and real now abides
On the soul's rock above the rushing tides:
That Mount of Vision, where from Memory's mien
The veil falls off, and Hope's own eyes are seen.
Ye seek to clutch it, and it is not there!
The Past, the Future—these, in friendly strife,
Make the perpetual present of our life.
On that vast sea, the rushing flood of Time,
Where ages, years and moments sink and climb,
'Twixt the last ridge and the next moment's brow
Comes the brief instant dreamy souls call now,
And deem a foothold firm to stand upon;
Yet, ere the mind can grasp it, it is gone!
The only true and real now abides
On the soul's rock above the rushing tides:
That Mount of Vision, where from Memory's mien
The veil falls off, and Hope's own eyes are seen.
The Past is nothing, sayst thou? Rather say,
The Past is everything; naught else shall stay.
For hear this truth, O soul, by reason taught,
And heed this truth, O man, with wisdom fraught:
The Past, one day, all Time shall gather in;
What has been, is; what will be, will have been.
O friends, who gather here this festal day,
On Memory's altar pious gifts to lay,
Say, do your hearts confess, the Past is dead?
That aught once precious to the soul has fled?
Oh no! the good old times, the good old men,
If once they seemed to perish, live again.
The men of reverent soul and thoughtful mind,
They have not passed away and left behind
Their name and memory only here below;
Their presence fills our hearts with kindling glow.
The white haired sires who rose on childhood's eyes,
Like hoary mountain peaks in purer skies,
That seemed in august majesty to stand
And catch the vision of the promised land—
Those old white heads—like lamps of lambent light,
Pillars of fire to guide through this world's night,
The eyes of love that on our childhood smiled,
The lips of wisdom, faithful, firm and mild,
The careful hands that led our wayward feet,
Morning and evening greetings, soft and sweet,
These are not lost, these have not vanished; no!
They were no cunning juggler's mimic show!
Parents, preceptors, pastors, were a line
Of Prophets pointing to the Love Divine:
A group of shining ones—no shadowy band,
Still beckoning onward to the sunny land,
Where still they walk, arrayed in robes of white,
And bid us with them walk the fields of light.
The Past is everything; naught else shall stay.
For hear this truth, O soul, by reason taught,
And heed this truth, O man, with wisdom fraught:
The Past, one day, all Time shall gather in;
What has been, is; what will be, will have been.
73
On Memory's altar pious gifts to lay,
Say, do your hearts confess, the Past is dead?
That aught once precious to the soul has fled?
Oh no! the good old times, the good old men,
If once they seemed to perish, live again.
The men of reverent soul and thoughtful mind,
They have not passed away and left behind
Their name and memory only here below;
Their presence fills our hearts with kindling glow.
The white haired sires who rose on childhood's eyes,
Like hoary mountain peaks in purer skies,
That seemed in august majesty to stand
And catch the vision of the promised land—
Those old white heads—like lamps of lambent light,
Pillars of fire to guide through this world's night,
The eyes of love that on our childhood smiled,
The lips of wisdom, faithful, firm and mild,
The careful hands that led our wayward feet,
Morning and evening greetings, soft and sweet,
These are not lost, these have not vanished; no!
They were no cunning juggler's mimic show!
Parents, preceptors, pastors, were a line
Of Prophets pointing to the Love Divine:
A group of shining ones—no shadowy band,
Still beckoning onward to the sunny land,
Where still they walk, arrayed in robes of white,
And bid us with them walk the fields of light.
To-day how real and how fresh appears
The faded history of a hundred years!
A hundred years!—though few the living men,
Whose memory runs through threescore years and ten,
Yet we, who haply in our boyhood saw
The old centennial men, with wondering awe,
Saw in their eyes, and seem e'en now to see,
The lifetime of a former century.
The faded history of a hundred years!
A hundred years!—though few the living men,
Whose memory runs through threescore years and ten,
Yet we, who haply in our boyhood saw
The old centennial men, with wondering awe,
74
The lifetime of a former century.
We see thy new-cut frame, “Old North,” arise;
We hear thy new-hung bell salute the skies,
We see the manly Barnard's placid form
Amid the Revolution's gathering storm.
Hark to the roll of Sabbath breaking drums!
Up Lynde street now the bristling column comes
I see the startled congregation pour,
Curious and anxious, from each swarming door.
Men, women, children, parson in his gown,
All to the river-side are hurrying down,
And there is seen a sight I wonder much
Has tempted no historic painter's touch.
This way and that the fiery colonel flies,
With flashing sword and fury flashing eyes;
Our placid, kindly pastor stands the while,
Aplomb, with quiet words and quiet smile,
Helping right well the logic of events
Across the river with his calm good sense.
For lo! that side the stream is played the game
McFingal's muse has handed down to fame.
For neither blood-red coats nor bloody threats,
Nor brandished swords, nor gleaming bayonets
On foemen's guns can strike with proper awe
Those daring boys astride the bridge's draw,
Who, mindful of the ancient saw, before
The horse was stolen, shut the stable door,
And when the iron prey he sought is gone,
Will let the seizer cross his Rubicon.
We hear thy new-hung bell salute the skies,
We see the manly Barnard's placid form
Amid the Revolution's gathering storm.
Hark to the roll of Sabbath breaking drums!
Up Lynde street now the bristling column comes
I see the startled congregation pour,
Curious and anxious, from each swarming door.
Men, women, children, parson in his gown,
All to the river-side are hurrying down,
And there is seen a sight I wonder much
Has tempted no historic painter's touch.
This way and that the fiery colonel flies,
With flashing sword and fury flashing eyes;
Our placid, kindly pastor stands the while,
Aplomb, with quiet words and quiet smile,
Helping right well the logic of events
Across the river with his calm good sense.
For lo! that side the stream is played the game
McFingal's muse has handed down to fame.
For neither blood-red coats nor bloody threats,
Nor brandished swords, nor gleaming bayonets
On foemen's guns can strike with proper awe
Those daring boys astride the bridge's draw,
Who, mindful of the ancient saw, before
The horse was stolen, shut the stable door,
And when the iron prey he sought is gone,
Will let the seizer cross his Rubicon.
Old North! thy tender years were then but three;
War rocked the cradle of thy infancy.
Who is there living now that saw that day,
Heard that first muttering of the coming fray?
That congregation God has gathered in,
Where shall be heard no more earth's battle din.
Gone is the house of God that felt the jar,
That Sabbath noon, of War's approaching car.
Gone? nay, its place shall know it never more,
Haply one day shall men in vain explore
To find the place itself where once it stood,—
Still more, a vestige of its ancient wood;
Yet through all transmigration safe to-day
Its form abides and shall abide for aye.
Where—in what realm—do still these eyes behold,
As once, with childish gaze, in years of old,
They looked upon that holy, homely place,
The old square pews and each familiar face?
Say, in what world that reverend pile still stands,
Alike defying time and human hands?
Unchanged by sudden whim or slow decay,
Lives that old house in memory's light to-day.
Oh for some Goldsmith now, in vivid hues
To paint the scenes that mock my feeble muse!
Once more, old sounding-board! reverberate
And ring and roar while thee I celebrate!
Stupendous wonder lifted up on high!
Ponderous paradox to childhood's eye!
Enormous bulk suspended in mid-air,
A sword of Damocles, by a wooden hair!
Each urchin watched with mingling hope and dread,
To see it fall plump on the parson's head!
And that dark hole beneath the pulpit stairs,
That still almost, at times, my memory scares!
What if the “tidy-man,” bad boy! should hale
Thy trembling body to that gloomy jail!
—But soft! half lost through memory's gallery-door,
My thoughts one flying phantom half restore:
'Tis thou, old Father Boyce! risen from the dead,
The well-known old bandanna round thy head,
And the knob-headed pole—the magic wand—
The dreaded ensign of thy stern command:
Full many an urchin of the gallery crew
Feared that long sceptre—aye, and felt it too.
Like rifle's crack I've heard the blow come down
With a sharp ring upon some culprit's crown.
—The vision fades—old Boyce slips through the door—
Another, brisker step is on the floor;
But, quick-eyed, nimble-tongued and slight of limb,
Old William Gavett was a boy to him.
Little old man, thy image leads a train
Of funny recollections through the brain.
It marks the time, when doubts began to grow,
If bodily shivers fanned the spirit's glow,
I see thee stand beside thy oven-door
With hospitable hands to feed once more
The foot-stove borne along the icy street
With its red comfort for maternal feet;
Where filial feet that could not touch the floor,
Dangled and kicked till the long hour was o'er,
The last prayer closed and seats slammed down again
With what queer Hood might call a wooden Amen.
—Again across the field my magic glass
I slide, to let another figure pass.
What grave, gaunt form now stalks before my eye—
O prince of organ-blowers, Philip Frye!
That suit of black, that sober Sunday face,
Threw o'er thee such a sanctimonious grace,
That strangers sometimes have been known to err,
And take the blower for the minister.
—But what a change when Monday morning came!
Can this—I often wondered—be the same,
The very self-same Philip, that I meet
Mincing and simpering down through Essex street?
The long-tailed Sunday coat of black displaced
By a blue jacket of the shortest waist;
The Sunday visage too is laid aside,
The air of holy reticence and pride:
The Sabbath spell is off—with common men
Lo Philip is a man —yea boy, again.
But soon as Sunday morn again comes round,
The reverend Philip at his post is found,
Where in the pauses of his holy toil,
As if anointed with invisible oil,
He looks from out his cell complacent round,
Rapt with the memory of the solemn sound,
With large, contented eyes that seem to say,—
“Have we not done the music well to-day?”
[OMITTED]
But tender memories rise meanwhile and cast
Their sacred shadows o'er the deathless past.
The home where first we tasted heavenly love,
The church that brought to view a world above,
To these the heart comes back, where'er we roam,
“True to the kindred points of heaven and home!”
How sweet a memory his, on whom, as child,
The gentle face of sainted Abbot smiled,
Who feels to-day, though fifty years have fled,
That hand of benediction on his head!
War rocked the cradle of thy infancy.
Who is there living now that saw that day,
Heard that first muttering of the coming fray?
That congregation God has gathered in,
Where shall be heard no more earth's battle din.
Gone is the house of God that felt the jar,
75
Gone? nay, its place shall know it never more,
Haply one day shall men in vain explore
To find the place itself where once it stood,—
Still more, a vestige of its ancient wood;
Yet through all transmigration safe to-day
Its form abides and shall abide for aye.
Where—in what realm—do still these eyes behold,
As once, with childish gaze, in years of old,
They looked upon that holy, homely place,
The old square pews and each familiar face?
Say, in what world that reverend pile still stands,
Alike defying time and human hands?
Unchanged by sudden whim or slow decay,
Lives that old house in memory's light to-day.
Oh for some Goldsmith now, in vivid hues
To paint the scenes that mock my feeble muse!
Once more, old sounding-board! reverberate
And ring and roar while thee I celebrate!
Stupendous wonder lifted up on high!
Ponderous paradox to childhood's eye!
Enormous bulk suspended in mid-air,
A sword of Damocles, by a wooden hair!
Each urchin watched with mingling hope and dread,
To see it fall plump on the parson's head!
And that dark hole beneath the pulpit stairs,
That still almost, at times, my memory scares!
What if the “tidy-man,” bad boy! should hale
Thy trembling body to that gloomy jail!
—But soft! half lost through memory's gallery-door,
My thoughts one flying phantom half restore:
'Tis thou, old Father Boyce! risen from the dead,
The well-known old bandanna round thy head,
And the knob-headed pole—the magic wand—
The dreaded ensign of thy stern command:
76
Feared that long sceptre—aye, and felt it too.
Like rifle's crack I've heard the blow come down
With a sharp ring upon some culprit's crown.
—The vision fades—old Boyce slips through the door—
Another, brisker step is on the floor;
But, quick-eyed, nimble-tongued and slight of limb,
Old William Gavett was a boy to him.
Little old man, thy image leads a train
Of funny recollections through the brain.
It marks the time, when doubts began to grow,
If bodily shivers fanned the spirit's glow,
I see thee stand beside thy oven-door
With hospitable hands to feed once more
The foot-stove borne along the icy street
With its red comfort for maternal feet;
Where filial feet that could not touch the floor,
Dangled and kicked till the long hour was o'er,
The last prayer closed and seats slammed down again
With what queer Hood might call a wooden Amen.
—Again across the field my magic glass
I slide, to let another figure pass.
What grave, gaunt form now stalks before my eye—
O prince of organ-blowers, Philip Frye!
That suit of black, that sober Sunday face,
Threw o'er thee such a sanctimonious grace,
That strangers sometimes have been known to err,
And take the blower for the minister.
—But what a change when Monday morning came!
Can this—I often wondered—be the same,
The very self-same Philip, that I meet
Mincing and simpering down through Essex street?
The long-tailed Sunday coat of black displaced
By a blue jacket of the shortest waist;
The Sunday visage too is laid aside,
77
The Sabbath spell is off—with common men
Lo Philip is a man —yea boy, again.
But soon as Sunday morn again comes round,
The reverend Philip at his post is found,
Where in the pauses of his holy toil,
As if anointed with invisible oil,
He looks from out his cell complacent round,
Rapt with the memory of the solemn sound,
With large, contented eyes that seem to say,—
“Have we not done the music well to-day?”
[OMITTED]
But tender memories rise meanwhile and cast
Their sacred shadows o'er the deathless past.
The home where first we tasted heavenly love,
The church that brought to view a world above,
To these the heart comes back, where'er we roam,
“True to the kindred points of heaven and home!”
How sweet a memory his, on whom, as child,
The gentle face of sainted Abbot smiled,
Who feels to-day, though fifty years have fled,
That hand of benediction on his head!
Ah, all too soon for us that gracious light
The veil of death removed from mortal sight—
Removed—not quenched;—from heaven, with purer beams,
Along our path through memory's air it gleams.
And many a one, whose young eyes scarcely saw
The look of that sweet face, for very awe,
Feels that remembered presence, mild and calm,
Breathe o'er his soul a summer morning balm.
The veil of death removed from mortal sight—
Removed—not quenched;—from heaven, with purer beams,
Along our path through memory's air it gleams.
And many a one, whose young eyes scarcely saw
The look of that sweet face, for very awe,
Feels that remembered presence, mild and calm,
Breathe o'er his soul a summer morning balm.
Then came to us that gifted one,
whose mind,
Graced with ripe culture and with taste refined,
In fervid feeling's glow devoutly wrought
The lucid links of energetic thought.
Well could he point with wit the shaft of truth,
Stir the ambition of ingenuous youth,
Rebuke the worldling's vain and shallow sneers,
And show Heaven's rainbow-light on sorrow's tears.
Graced with ripe culture and with taste refined,
In fervid feeling's glow devoutly wrought
The lucid links of energetic thought.
78
Stir the ambition of ingenuous youth,
Rebuke the worldling's vain and shallow sneers,
And show Heaven's rainbow-light on sorrow's tears.
One picture waits for this poor pencil yet—
Who that beheld the sight can e'er forget?—
When, punctual as the Sunday morn appears,
That form unbowed beneath its hundred years,
And at the pastor's side devoutly stands,
As if to hear with him the Lord's commands.
So a calm mountain rises white with snow,
While at its feet streams gush and roses glow;
The evening beams that play around its head,
On other worlds a morning-sunlight shed.
Serene old man! when sank thy honored head,
A hundred years were numbered with the dead;
As melts a snow-white foam-flake in the sea,
A century melted in Eternity.
Nay, from the sacred place where once with awe
In the prayer-hour thy aged form we saw
Stand with bowed head and reverential air,
A century still looks down upon us there,
And with a voice of old experience cries:
Fear God, love man, be temperate, just and wise!
Who that beheld the sight can e'er forget?—
When, punctual as the Sunday morn appears,
That form unbowed beneath its hundred years,
And at the pastor's side devoutly stands,
As if to hear with him the Lord's commands.
So a calm mountain rises white with snow,
While at its feet streams gush and roses glow;
The evening beams that play around its head,
On other worlds a morning-sunlight shed.
Serene old man! when sank thy honored head,
A hundred years were numbered with the dead;
As melts a snow-white foam-flake in the sea,
A century melted in Eternity.
Nay, from the sacred place where once with awe
In the prayer-hour thy aged form we saw
Stand with bowed head and reverential air,
A century still looks down upon us there,
And with a voice of old experience cries:
Fear God, love man, be temperate, just and wise!
With thee my song shall close:—O patient friends,
'Tis well that here my broken music ends.
So its last moan the shattered sea-wave makes,
When on the monumental rock it breaks.
Haply may these poor words, my stammering tongue
Upon its native air hath freely flung,
To the rude clang of memory's wayward lyre,
In some true heart awake a smouldering fire,
And reënkindle there the faith sublime,
That hears through all earth's din the Eternal City's chime.
'Tis well that here my broken music ends.
So its last moan the shattered sea-wave makes,
When on the monumental rock it breaks.
Haply may these poor words, my stammering tongue
Upon its native air hath freely flung,
To the rude clang of memory's wayward lyre,
In some true heart awake a smouldering fire,
79
That hears through all earth's din the Eternal City's chime.
Peace to my lingering song! and peace to thee,
City of Peace! of Pilgrim memory,
Sweet home and sacred shrine, old Salem town!
Add new bright centuries to thy old renown!
Well may he be forgiven, a child of thine,
Whose hand presumptuous would to-day entwine
Amid thy chaplet green one fresh-plucked flower,
That may not long outlive the passing hour.
No words could ever give fit thanks to thee,
For all that thou hast given and been to me!
A child's warm blessing on thy fields and skies,
Thy rocky pastures dear to childhood's eyes,
Thy fresh blue waters and fair islands green,
Of many a youthful sport the favorite scene,
North Fields and South Fields—Castle Hill—Dark Lane,
And Paradise, where memory leads the train
Of her transfigured dead, whose relics lie
At rest where living waters murmur by.
A blessing on the memory of the line
Of statesmen, saints and sages, sons of thine!
A blessing, last of all, on thee, old North!
From thee may Peace and Love and Light stream forth!
May Learning and Religion, Grace and Truth,
Shed here the glory of perennial youth!
May Faith and Freedom here join hand in hand
To lead thy children to the promised land!
Dear city of our fathers! may their God
Still guide and comfort with the staff and rod,
And in the cloud and fire lead onward still
Our faltering footsteps up the heavenly hill!
City of Peace! of Pilgrim memory,
Sweet home and sacred shrine, old Salem town!
Add new bright centuries to thy old renown!
Well may he be forgiven, a child of thine,
Whose hand presumptuous would to-day entwine
Amid thy chaplet green one fresh-plucked flower,
That may not long outlive the passing hour.
No words could ever give fit thanks to thee,
For all that thou hast given and been to me!
A child's warm blessing on thy fields and skies,
Thy rocky pastures dear to childhood's eyes,
Thy fresh blue waters and fair islands green,
Of many a youthful sport the favorite scene,
North Fields and South Fields—Castle Hill—Dark Lane,
And Paradise, where memory leads the train
Of her transfigured dead, whose relics lie
At rest where living waters murmur by.
A blessing on the memory of the line
Of statesmen, saints and sages, sons of thine!
A blessing, last of all, on thee, old North!
From thee may Peace and Love and Light stream forth!
May Learning and Religion, Grace and Truth,
Shed here the glory of perennial youth!
May Faith and Freedom here join hand in hand
To lead thy children to the promised land!
Dear city of our fathers! may their God
Still guide and comfort with the staff and rod,
And in the cloud and fire lead onward still
Our faltering footsteps up the heavenly hill!
Hood, in his “Music for the Million,” describes an angry man as slamming a door to with a wooden Damn.
| [Rhymed reminiscences, in] The first centenary of the North Church and Society, in Salem, Massachusetts | |