Aquidneck a poem, pronounced on the hundredth anniversary Of the Incorporation of the Redwood Library Company, Newport, R. I. August XXIV. MDCCCXLVII. with other commemorative pieces |
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NEW ENGLAND PENTECOSTAL HYMN. |
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NEW ENGLAND PENTECOSTAL HYMN.
Sung in Boston, May 25, 1847.
When summer crowned the glowing year,
And bade man's heart rejoice,
Came Judah's tribes from far and near,
With glad and grateful voice.
They brought their gifts—they built their bowers
In pleasant Palestine:—
We heard it all in childhood's hours—
In days and years lang syne.
And bade man's heart rejoice,
Came Judah's tribes from far and near,
With glad and grateful voice.
They brought their gifts—they built their bowers
In pleasant Palestine:—
We heard it all in childhood's hours—
In days and years lang syne.
With festive hearts and festal rites
Jerusalem was blest;
For to his old ancestral heights
Came many a welcome guest.
They sang His name with grateful praise,
Who blessed the corn and vine;—
We heard it all in childhood's days—
In days and years lang syne.
Jerusalem was blest;
For to his old ancestral heights
Came many a welcome guest.
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Who blessed the corn and vine;—
We heard it all in childhood's days—
In days and years lang syne.
Year after year—age after age—
The solemn joy came round,
And from Jehovah's heritage
Went up the grateful sound.
And though enthralled, or exiled long
From Zion's holy shrine,
Remembrance dwelt with yearning strong
In days and years lang syne.
The solemn joy came round,
And from Jehovah's heritage
Went up the grateful sound.
And though enthralled, or exiled long
From Zion's holy shrine,
Remembrance dwelt with yearning strong
In days and years lang syne.
And oft, when May its first-fruits brought,
And Pentecost passed by,
Expectant Israel fondly thought
Her summer, too, was nigh.
For though the Gentile held his towers
Within her walls divine,
Hope saw in vision glorious hours
And years like those lang syne.
And Pentecost passed by,
Expectant Israel fondly thought
Her summer, too, was nigh.
For though the Gentile held his towers
Within her walls divine,
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And years like those lang syne.
Moriah! in thy place of prayer,
The hour is coming now;
A boding hush is on the air,
And on each reverent brow.
In waiting stillness there they bend
Around a viewless shrine,
With whose fresh hopes and memories blend
Old dreams of years lang syne.
The hour is coming now;
A boding hush is on the air,
And on each reverent brow.
In waiting stillness there they bend
Around a viewless shrine,
With whose fresh hopes and memories blend
Old dreams of years lang syne.
Nor waited they in vain—it came,—
In that momentous hour,—
The rushing wind—the tongue of flame—
The spirit and the power.
'Tis lang—lang syne, my friends—
'Tis lang—lang syne—
But we'll ne'er forget our mighty debt
To the men of Palestine!
In that momentous hour,—
The rushing wind—the tongue of flame—
The spirit and the power.
'Tis lang—lang syne, my friends—
'Tis lang—lang syne—
But we'll ne'er forget our mighty debt
To the men of Palestine!
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The seed they sowed in tears and blood,—
What fruit untold it bore!
That sent new seed o'er many a flood
And distant, darkened shore.
'Twas wafted to our own loved land
Across a stormy brine,
And planted well by Plymouth strand
In days and years lang syne.
What fruit untold it bore!
That sent new seed o'er many a flood
And distant, darkened shore.
'Twas wafted to our own loved land
Across a stormy brine,
And planted well by Plymouth strand
In days and years lang syne.
That seed has grown a mighty tree—
That tree is growing yet—
And we, the children of the free,
Beneath its shade are met,
Our Pentecostal feast to keep,
And in our souls enshrine
The sainted dead who fell asleep
In days and years lang syne.
That tree is growing yet—
And we, the children of the free,
Beneath its shade are met,
Our Pentecostal feast to keep,
And in our souls enshrine
The sainted dead who fell asleep
In days and years lang syne.
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