 | Poems, original and translated |  |
117
POEMS.
SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST.
It was the holy hour of dawn:
By hands invisible withdrawn,
The curtain of the summer night
Had vanished; and the morning light,
Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw
Increasing glory up the blue.
O sacred balm of summer dawn,
When odors from the new-mown lawn
Blend with the breath of sky and sea,
And, like the prayers of sanctity,
Go up to Him who reigns above,
An incense-offering of love!
By hands invisible withdrawn,
The curtain of the summer night
Had vanished; and the morning light,
Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw
Increasing glory up the blue.
O sacred balm of summer dawn,
When odors from the new-mown lawn
Blend with the breath of sky and sea,
And, like the prayers of sanctity,
Go up to Him who reigns above,
An incense-offering of love!
Alone upon a rock I stood,
Far out above the ocean-flood,
Whose vast expanse before me lay,
Now silver-white, now leaden-gray,
As o'er its face, alternate, threw
The rays and clouds their varying hue.
I felt a deep, expectant hush
Through Nature, as the increasing flush
Of the red orient seemed to tell
The approach of some great spectacle,
O'er which the birds in heaven's far height
Hung, as entranced, in mute delight.
But when the sun, in royal state,
Through his triumphant golden gate,
Came riding forth in majesty
Out of the fleckèd eastern sky,
As comes a conqueror to his tent;
And, up and down the firmament,
The captive clouds of routed night,
Their garments fringed with golden light,
Bending around the azure arch,
Lent glory to the victor's march;
And when he flung his blazing glance
Across the watery expanse,—
Methought, along that rocky coast,
The foaming waves, a crested host,
As on their snowy plumes the beams
Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams,
Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight,
And clapped their hands to hail the sight,
And sent a mighty shout on high
Of exultation to the sky.
Far out above the ocean-flood,
Whose vast expanse before me lay,
Now silver-white, now leaden-gray,
As o'er its face, alternate, threw
The rays and clouds their varying hue.
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Through Nature, as the increasing flush
Of the red orient seemed to tell
The approach of some great spectacle,
O'er which the birds in heaven's far height
Hung, as entranced, in mute delight.
But when the sun, in royal state,
Through his triumphant golden gate,
Came riding forth in majesty
Out of the fleckèd eastern sky,
As comes a conqueror to his tent;
And, up and down the firmament,
The captive clouds of routed night,
Their garments fringed with golden light,
Bending around the azure arch,
Lent glory to the victor's march;
And when he flung his blazing glance
Across the watery expanse,—
Methought, along that rocky coast,
The foaming waves, a crested host,
As on their snowy plumes the beams
Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams,
Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight,
And clapped their hands to hail the sight,
And sent a mighty shout on high
Of exultation to the sky.
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THE GREAT VOICES.
A voice from the sea to the mountains,
From the mountains again to the sea;
A call from the deep to the fountains:
O spirit! be glad and be free!
From the mountains again to the sea;
A call from the deep to the fountains:
O spirit! be glad and be free!
A cry from the floods to the fountains,
And the torrents repeat the glad song
As they leap from the breast of the mountains:
O spirit! be free and be strong!
And the torrents repeat the glad song
As they leap from the breast of the mountains:
O spirit! be free and be strong!
The pine forests thrill with emotion
Of praise as the spirit sweeps by;
With the voice like the murmur of ocean
To the soul of the listener they cry.
Of praise as the spirit sweeps by;
With the voice like the murmur of ocean
To the soul of the listener they cry.
Oh, sing, human heart, like the fountains,
With joy reverential and free;
Contented and calm as the mountains,
And deep as the woods and the sea.
With joy reverential and free;
Contented and calm as the mountains,
And deep as the woods and the sea.
120
TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
How sweet to them that sail the seas
At twilight's peaceful hour to hear,
Borne from the shore on evening's breeze,
Familiar voices low and clear!
At twilight's peaceful hour to hear,
Borne from the shore on evening's breeze,
Familiar voices low and clear!
E'en so, as o'er the sea of time
In life's mysterious bark we glide,
The listening spirit hears the chime
Of memory's bells across the tide.
In life's mysterious bark we glide,
The listening spirit hears the chime
Of memory's bells across the tide.
How sweetly fall, in summer's night,
The moonbeams on the glimmering main!
How fair the wake of living light,
Far-stretching o'er the mystic plain!
The moonbeams on the glimmering main!
How fair the wake of living light,
Far-stretching o'er the mystic plain!
And memory's holy moonlight glow,
How sweet along life's landscape shed;
Transfiguring forms of long ago,
And summoning to life the dead!
How sweet along life's landscape shed;
Transfiguring forms of long ago,
And summoning to life the dead!
In memory's gleam and friendship's glow,
So may thy gliding moments shine;
And peace, as of a river's flow
Beneath a summer moon, be thine!
So may thy gliding moments shine;
And peace, as of a river's flow
Beneath a summer moon, be thine!
And beaming down from heavens above,
And up from memory's mirrored tide,
May stars of pure, immortal love
Encircle thee on every side!
And up from memory's mirrored tide,
May stars of pure, immortal love
Encircle thee on every side!
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ON ENTERING ST. PETER'S.
Push back the leathern curtain of the door,And as thou standest on the marble floor,
Thou seem'st to tread on some vast, murmuring shore
Of a mysterious ocean-deep, where brood
The souls of ages,—vast infinitude!—
Transforming to a populous solitude
The expanse of shining pavement, where the feet
Of restless crowds that pace this vast retreat
Give to thine ear an echo like the beat
Of the great surf-drum on some reboant beach;
And the rapt fancy almost seems to reach
The music of a half-articulate speech,
Borne from some mighty continent sublime,
Peopled with shapes and thoughts of older time,—
Angels and men whose souls still Godward climb!
Thou hearest—thou rememb'rest now no more
The world without, its restless rush and roar,
Here musing on the inner, upper shore.
Sounds from the spirit's own eternal home
Float round thy soul beneath that airy dome,
Giving thy thoughts freedom to rest, and roam
On wings uplifted through the firmament,
Soaring with energies unworn, unspent,
In boundless aspiration and content.
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EVENING CHIMES OF ROME.
HEARD FROM THE PINCIAN.
The evening sun is sinking low
Behind Mount Mario's graceful line,
And darkly cuts the western glow
That solitary pine.
Behind Mount Mario's graceful line,
And darkly cuts the western glow
That solitary pine.
See where, against the fading gold,
Stands black and stark St. Peter's dome;
While in the valley, mist-enrolled,
Twinkle the lights of Rome,—
Stands black and stark St. Peter's dome;
While in the valley, mist-enrolled,
Twinkle the lights of Rome,—
Twinkle as when, on summer nights,
Here, on the Campus Martius wide,
The fireflies flashed their fitful lights
Along the Tiber's tide;
Here, on the Campus Martius wide,
The fireflies flashed their fitful lights
Along the Tiber's tide;
While on the slopes and steeps around
The moon on marble mansions beamed,
Or many a height, with temples crowned,
In silvery starlight gleamed.
The moon on marble mansions beamed,
Or many a height, with temples crowned,
In silvery starlight gleamed.
And here and there, along the hill,
I see some lonely cypress stand,
Sombre and spectral, like a still
Sentinel of the land,—
I see some lonely cypress stand,
Sombre and spectral, like a still
Sentinel of the land,—
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The holy land, where—the profane,
Discordant present laid to sleep—
The spirit of the past again
Its vigils soon shall keep.
Discordant present laid to sleep—
The spirit of the past again
Its vigils soon shall keep.
But, hark! what requiem-bells are they,
That knell o'er ages gone to rest,
As vesper-tollings chant how day
Dies in the paling west.
That knell o'er ages gone to rest,
As vesper-tollings chant how day
Dies in the paling west.
To the calm land of spirits blest
They call my restless heart to soar,
Where break thy waves, O human breast!
And die upon the shore.
They call my restless heart to soar,
Where break thy waves, O human breast!
And die upon the shore.
1866.
PASCAGOULA.
Sweet, sweet Pascagoula! so lovely and lone!
Fain would I, at parting, breathe back one faint tone
Of the witching, wild music that floats round thy shore,
And will float through my memory till memory's no more.
Fair hours! with what peace o'er my musings ye steal,
Too deep to confess, yet too dear to conceal!
O Nature! thy Sabbath—I spent it with thee,
In the still, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea.
As sweet to my ear was the hymn of that morn
As if angels were singing creation just born.
And angels were singing,—thine angels, O Thou
To whom winds and waves chant, and the trembling leaves bow!
Though no human priest's accents arose on the air,
Yet the presence, O God! of thy spirit was there.
The pine with its ocean-like, spirit-like tone,
How plainly it told that I was not alone!
And was not that green, old, moss-garlanded tree
Arrayed in its robes as a priest unto Thee?
And did not a sweet choral melody rise
From woodland and waters, from shore and from skies?
And on the far marge of each sandy, green isle,
Did not the calm spirit of Gratitude smile?
And with her own lips did not Peace kiss the strand,
As the wave glided silently up o'er the sand?
Fain would I, at parting, breathe back one faint tone
Of the witching, wild music that floats round thy shore,
And will float through my memory till memory's no more.
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Too deep to confess, yet too dear to conceal!
O Nature! thy Sabbath—I spent it with thee,
In the still, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea.
As sweet to my ear was the hymn of that morn
As if angels were singing creation just born.
And angels were singing,—thine angels, O Thou
To whom winds and waves chant, and the trembling leaves bow!
Though no human priest's accents arose on the air,
Yet the presence, O God! of thy spirit was there.
The pine with its ocean-like, spirit-like tone,
How plainly it told that I was not alone!
And was not that green, old, moss-garlanded tree
Arrayed in its robes as a priest unto Thee?
And did not a sweet choral melody rise
From woodland and waters, from shore and from skies?
And on the far marge of each sandy, green isle,
Did not the calm spirit of Gratitude smile?
And with her own lips did not Peace kiss the strand,
As the wave glided silently up o'er the sand?
Sweet scenes! happy hours! I must bid you farewell!
Yet aye in my memory your spirits shall dwell.
And often at eve, when the moon of young May
Beams down on my own Northern waves far away;
And often at morn, when the breeze and the light
Draw the curtain away from the dreams of the night;
And often at noon, when the birds and the bees
Hum a drowsy, sweet tune in the grass and the trees;
In the dim, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea,
Sweet, sweet Pascagoula, I'll still think of thee!
Yet aye in my memory your spirits shall dwell.
And often at eve, when the moon of young May
Beams down on my own Northern waves far away;
And often at morn, when the breeze and the light
Draw the curtain away from the dreams of the night;
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Hum a drowsy, sweet tune in the grass and the trees;
In the dim, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea,
Sweet, sweet Pascagoula, I'll still think of thee!
The favorite watering-place of the Mobilians. It lies on a bay which is separated from the Gulf of Mexico by an island called Horn Island, sixteen miles long and only half a mile broad. In the summer-time a certain mysterious music is often heard there, which has been ascribed to various sources.
SPRING.
Oh, tender flush of vernal dawn
Along green fields and soft blue skies!
What sparkling of joy on the dewy lawn,
As of myriad gleaming spirit-eyes!
Along green fields and soft blue skies!
What sparkling of joy on the dewy lawn,
As of myriad gleaming spirit-eyes!
The tinkle and gush of the hillside brook,
The sunbeam's flash on the swallow's wing,
The smile that peeps from the warm, green nook,—
'T is the welcome of Nature to blessed Spring.
The sunbeam's flash on the swallow's wing,
The smile that peeps from the warm, green nook,—
'T is the welcome of Nature to blessed Spring.
Ten thousand tongues of gladness are unsealed;
The matin-song of brook and bee and bird,
Gay children's laugh in street and lane and field,
And cry of bleating flock and lowing herd.
The matin-song of brook and bee and bird,
Gay children's laugh in street and lane and field,
And cry of bleating flock and lowing herd.
Vocal once more the budding woodland charms
Back to his haunt the Genius of the place;
The common mother opens wide her arms
To fold her children in her large embrace.
Back to his haunt the Genius of the place;
The common mother opens wide her arms
To fold her children in her large embrace.
126
CHANNING.
From the pure upper world to-day
A hallowed memory meets us here,—
A presence lighting all our way
With heavenly thoughts and lofty cheer.
A hallowed memory meets us here,—
A presence lighting all our way
With heavenly thoughts and lofty cheer.
Here first he breathed the ocean air,
The headland cliff exalted trod,
And felt a Spirit everywhere,
And saw the step of Nature's God.
The headland cliff exalted trod,
And felt a Spirit everywhere,
And saw the step of Nature's God.
His bosom, heaving with the sea,
Exulted in the glorious din;
The elemental energy
Woke answering energy within.
Exulted in the glorious din;
The elemental energy
Woke answering energy within.
In many a lone and holy hour
Of rapturous self-communion there,
He felt within the peace and power
That issue from the fount of prayer.
Of rapturous self-communion there,
He felt within the peace and power
That issue from the fount of prayer.
And in the broad blue sky above,
In the large book of Nature, then
He felt the greatness of God's love
Rebuke the narrow creeds of men.
In the large book of Nature, then
He felt the greatness of God's love
Rebuke the narrow creeds of men.
Communing there with Nature's word,
Beside the vast and solemn sea,
With awe profound his spirit heard
The holy hymn of Liberty.
Beside the vast and solemn sea,
With awe profound his spirit heard
The holy hymn of Liberty.
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And surely here, where field and shore
Seem waiting still his step to hear,
And, musing by the breaker's roar,
We feel his spirit breathing near,—
Seem waiting still his step to hear,
And, musing by the breaker's roar,
We feel his spirit breathing near,—
Here, where the broad and chainless sea,
The blue sky bending from above,
Confirm the gospel, large and free,
He preached, of God's impartial love,
The blue sky bending from above,
Confirm the gospel, large and free,
He preached, of God's impartial love,
With an immortal fervor warm,
Shall rise an image of the man,
That shall express the spirit's form
As neither stone nor canvas can.
Shall rise an image of the man,
That shall express the spirit's form
As neither stone nor canvas can.
And many a soul that felt the thrill
His look through heart and conscience sent,
Burns with the flame it kindled still,
And is his living monument.
His look through heart and conscience sent,
Burns with the flame it kindled still,
And is his living monument.
That flame yet lives, that life breathes power,
The age still feels its holy thrill;
That voice is heard in trial's hour,
To nerve the weak and wavering will.
The age still feels its holy thrill;
That voice is heard in trial's hour,
To nerve the weak and wavering will.
No time shall come when Channing's name
Shall grow less bright on Freedom's scroll,
Or cease to light the holy flame
Of faith and virtue in the soul.
Shall grow less bright on Freedom's scroll,
Or cease to light the holy flame
Of faith and virtue in the soul.
128
SIGNS OF SUMMER
IN A COUNTRY TOWN.
Summer is nigh; the balmy air is filledWith thousand omens of the blissful time.
The floating fragrances of bonfire smoke
Waft back sweet memories of life's early spring,
When from the field rose childhood's feu-de-joie.
At morn the robin sings his roundelay;
The worm, unmindful of the “early bird,”
Thrusts from the new-dug earth his slimy head;
The marshes ring with the ecstatic choirs
Of frogs exulting in the copious rain;
The soft blue eye of May looks mildly down
With tender greeting on the face of earth,
And the bud's bosom swells responsively.
The tinkling of the cow-bell seems to chime
With the low tinkling of the rivulet,
That dances o'er the stones with silver feet.
The laugh of childhood emulates the laugh
Of gushing fountains, and a mingled hum
Of industry and pleasure, far and near,
Is borne o'er hill and valley; soon the morn
Of spring will deepen into summer's noon.
She comes! the blissful June! upon the lawn
I see the sparkling of her sandalled feet;
The sky is flushing with her rosy cheek;
Birds, buds, and brooklets sing—
Sweet Summer comes!
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THE DAWN OF SUMMER.
High on the noiseless hill-side
This mild May morn I stand,
And look abroad with rapture
O'er all the enchanted land.
This mild May morn I stand,
And look abroad with rapture
O'er all the enchanted land.
Below, the broad blue river
In silent beauty flows;
Beyond, the tranquil uplands
In majesty repose.
In silent beauty flows;
Beyond, the tranquil uplands
In majesty repose.
A hum of sweet contentment
Is borne o'er vale and hill:
I feel the mighty heart-beat
Through all creation thrill.
Is borne o'er vale and hill:
I feel the mighty heart-beat
Through all creation thrill.
The All-Father's blue tent-curtains
Are tenderly unfurled;
A thin blue veil hangs over
The cradle of the world.
Are tenderly unfurled;
A thin blue veil hangs over
The cradle of the world.
The earth from wintry slumber
In grateful wonder wakes;
In myriad dreamy murmurs
The long, deep silence breaks.
In grateful wonder wakes;
In myriad dreamy murmurs
The long, deep silence breaks.
A quivering through the forest
Stirs the expectant hush,
As prelude to the chorus
Of praise that soon shall gush
Stirs the expectant hush,
As prelude to the chorus
Of praise that soon shall gush
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From woodland and from mountain,
From meadow, shore, and skies,
To hail the morning glory
That greets man's wondering eyes.
From meadow, shore, and skies,
To hail the morning glory
That greets man's wondering eyes.
The pearly gates are open;
God's angels, flying forth,
Prepare the coming kingdom
Of beauty on the earth.
God's angels, flying forth,
Prepare the coming kingdom
Of beauty on the earth.
TO ---.
I know a garden where the roses bloomAll the year round, and breathe a sweet perfume;
I know a garden where the fountains spring
All winter long, sweet music murmuring;
I know a garden where the tuneful bird
All through the seasons and the hours is heard.
Not far away o'er sea that garden lies,
In vales of Araby or Persian skies;
In every home it lies where Love presides,
In every heart it blooms where Love abides.
Love is the rose that scents that garden's bowers,
Love is the bird whose music cheers the hours;
Love is the fount that ever pulses there,
And freshens the perennial summer air;—
Love, sweet magician, clothed with His own might
Whose look evoked the universe from night.
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Our hearts have known it, and forever will!
The cheek shall lose its glow, the quick pulse fail,
The fire that lit the eye grow dim and pale;
But, though all else depart, God's angel Love
Shall cheer us till we reach the home above.
March 26, 1868.
THE VOICE OF SUMMER.
This is the year's refulgent noon;
Now, through the long midsummer hours,
The locust sings his drowsy tune,
And roams the bee his realm of flowers.
Now, through the long midsummer hours,
The locust sings his drowsy tune,
And roams the bee his realm of flowers.
Contentment, peace, and rapture brood—
The smile of heaven—o'er hill and vale;
By sunny field and shady wood,
White clouds, like wings of angels, sail.
The smile of heaven—o'er hill and vale;
By sunny field and shady wood,
White clouds, like wings of angels, sail.
The hills and fields, the skies and seas;
The breath of heaven upon the brow;
Mysterious messenger, the breeze,
That comes and goes, we know not how;
The breath of heaven upon the brow;
Mysterious messenger, the breeze,
That comes and goes, we know not how;
The flowers that greet us on our way,
The carol of the summer bird;
The laugh of children at their play,—
One gentle voice in all is heard.
The carol of the summer bird;
The laugh of children at their play,—
One gentle voice in all is heard.
132
TO SAMUEL G. HOWE.
At evening, in an Alpine vale,
I watched the mountain-summits white
Flame rosy-red, then slowly pale
Before the deepening shades of night.
I watched the mountain-summits white
Flame rosy-red, then slowly pale
Before the deepening shades of night.
When, from the waning face of day,
The last faint shadow of a flush
Behind the mountains died away,
There fell a momentary hush.
The last faint shadow of a flush
Behind the mountains died away,
There fell a momentary hush.
Then suddenly a thrill of awe
Rang through the silent vale: for, lo!
That spectral mountain-chain I saw
Lit with a preternatural glow;
Rang through the silent vale: for, lo!
That spectral mountain-chain I saw
Lit with a preternatural glow;
As if behind that wall of snow
The sunken sun were shining through,
And smiling to the world below
One more last heavenly adieu!
The sunken sun were shining through,
And smiling to the world below
One more last heavenly adieu!
Who that has seen those evening shows
Their look and voice can e'er forget?
Can the pure world that then arose
On the soul's vision ever set?
Their look and voice can e'er forget?
Can the pure world that then arose
On the soul's vision ever set?
Though death's pale mountains hide the sun
Of noble lives from mortal eyes,
Oh, deem not then their day is done!
They sank, in higher heavens to rise.
Of noble lives from mortal eyes,
Oh, deem not then their day is done!
They sank, in higher heavens to rise.
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As through life's twilight vale we go,
Time's pilgrims in this earthly land,
Transpierced by that undying glow,
How bright those shadowy mountains stand!
Time's pilgrims in this earthly land,
Transpierced by that undying glow,
How bright those shadowy mountains stand!
The boundary hills are they that rise
And, looking on our earthly night,
Veil and reveal to mortal eyes
The land of everlasting light.
And, looking on our earthly night,
Veil and reveal to mortal eyes
The land of everlasting light.
Peace from the soul's bright track comes down
Like evening starlight on the vale:
We see the victor's starry crown,
And say: Farewell! farewell and Hail!
Like evening starlight on the vale:
We see the victor's starry crown,
And say: Farewell! farewell and Hail!
THE PAST.
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.
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,
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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,—
A spirit's welcome, with whose magic strain
Springs tender pleasure from remembered pain.
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,—
That Mount of Vision, where from Memory's mien
The veil falls off, and Hope's own eyes are seen;
While this imposing world's tumultuous roar
Dies in faint murmurs on an inland shore.
A DARK MORNING.
Can this be morn? I heard the cock
Cry, long ago, the morning hour;
And through the darkness now the clock
Speaks plainly from the neighboring tower.
Cry, long ago, the morning hour;
And through the darkness now the clock
Speaks plainly from the neighboring tower.
And yet the mantling autumn shower,
So cold and thick, prolongs the night;
Nor star, nor moon, nor sun hath power
To show the faintest gleam of light.
So cold and thick, prolongs the night;
Nor star, nor moon, nor sun hath power
To show the faintest gleam of light.
135
Where'er I turn my straining sight,
I see no living, moving form,
Save black-winged clouds in heavy flight,
And trees that tremble in the storm.
I see no living, moving form,
Save black-winged clouds in heavy flight,
And trees that tremble in the storm.
From eastern chambers of the deep
No day-spring breaks to greet my eyes;
But sea-born mists, wild gathering, sweep,
Confounding earth and seas and skies.
No day-spring breaks to greet my eyes;
But sea-born mists, wild gathering, sweep,
Confounding earth and seas and skies.
Their endless legions rise and rise,
The storm-wind's trumpet-blast obey,—
The scattered crown of Autumn flies
Before that murky, grim array.
The storm-wind's trumpet-blast obey,—
The scattered crown of Autumn flies
Before that murky, grim array.
Where is the world that, yesterday,
With tranquil beauty tranced my sight,
As, bosomed in the skies, it lay
A paradise of love and light?
With tranquil beauty tranced my sight,
As, bosomed in the skies, it lay
A paradise of love and light?
Where are the skies that met my gaze,
And seemed to kiss the earth's fair face,
While over it the summer haze
Hung health and beauty, glow and grace?
And seemed to kiss the earth's fair face,
While over it the summer haze
Hung health and beauty, glow and grace?
Wait a few hours, and thou shalt know,
And see “with unbeclouded eye,”
Though night and grief dwell here below,
Sunshine and gladness reign on high.
And see “with unbeclouded eye,”
Though night and grief dwell here below,
Sunshine and gladness reign on high.
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Then shall these storms of earth, that seem
To swallow heaven, have passed away,
Like shadows of a troubled dream,
When morning mists are lost in day.
To swallow heaven, have passed away,
Like shadows of a troubled dream,
When morning mists are lost in day.
THE FAITHFUL MONK.
Golden gleams of noonday fell
On the pavement of the cell,
And the monk still lingered there
In the ecstasy of prayer;
Fuller floods of glory streamed
Through the window, and it seemed
Like an answering glow of love
From the countenance above.
On the pavement of the cell,
And the monk still lingered there
In the ecstasy of prayer;
Fuller floods of glory streamed
Through the window, and it seemed
Like an answering glow of love
From the countenance above.
On the silence of the cell
Break the faint tones of a bell.
'T is the hour when at the gate
Crowds of poor and hungry wait,
Wan and wistful, to be fed
With the friar of mercy's bread.
Break the faint tones of a bell.
'T is the hour when at the gate
Crowds of poor and hungry wait,
Wan and wistful, to be fed
With the friar of mercy's bread.
Hark! that chime of heaven's far bells!
On the monk's rapt ear it swells.
No! fond, flattering dream, away!
Mercy calls; no longer stay!
Whom thou yearnest here to find
In the musings of thy mind,—
God and Jesus, lo! they wait
Knocking at thy convent gate.
On the monk's rapt ear it swells.
No! fond, flattering dream, away!
Mercy calls; no longer stay!
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In the musings of thy mind,—
God and Jesus, lo! they wait
Knocking at thy convent gate.
From his knees the monk arose.
With full heart and hand he goes;
At his gate the poor relieves,
Gives a blessing, and receives;
To his cell returned, and there
Found the angel of his prayer,
Who, with radiant features, said,
“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled.”
With full heart and hand he goes;
At his gate the poor relieves,
Gives a blessing, and receives;
To his cell returned, and there
Found the angel of his prayer,
Who, with radiant features, said,
“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled.”
OUR ISLAND HOME.
Though here no towering mountain-steep
Leaps, forest-crowned, to meet the sky;
Nor prairie, with majestic sweep,
Enchants the gazer's roaming eye,—
Leaps, forest-crowned, to meet the sky;
Nor prairie, with majestic sweep,
Enchants the gazer's roaming eye,—
Yet ocean's glittering garden-bed,
Summer and winter, cheers the sight:
Its rose, the sun, at noon flames red;
The moon, its lily, blooms by night.
Summer and winter, cheers the sight:
Its rose, the sun, at noon flames red;
The moon, its lily, blooms by night.
The white-winged ships, in fleet career,
Like sea-birds o'er the ocean skim;
They rise, glide on, and disappear
Behind the horizon's shadowy rim.
Like sea-birds o'er the ocean skim;
They rise, glide on, and disappear
Behind the horizon's shadowy rim.
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So sail the fleets of clouds; and so
Stars rise, and climb the heavens, and set,
Like human thoughts, that come and go—
Whence—whither—no man knoweth yet.
Stars rise, and climb the heavens, and set,
Like human thoughts, that come and go—
Whence—whither—no man knoweth yet.
Far onward sweeps the billowy main;
To meet it bends th' o'erarching sky:
Of God's vast being emblems twain;
Deep unto deep gives glad reply.
To meet it bends th' o'erarching sky:
Of God's vast being emblems twain;
Deep unto deep gives glad reply.
These open, each, a broad highway;
To endless realms the soul invite:
The trackless ocean-floor by day,
The star-lit stairs of heaven by night.
To endless realms the soul invite:
The trackless ocean-floor by day,
The star-lit stairs of heaven by night.
Oh, enviable lot! to dwell
Surrounded by the great-voiced sea,
Whose waves intone, with trumpet-swell,
The hymn of Law and Liberty!
Surrounded by the great-voiced sea,
Whose waves intone, with trumpet-swell,
The hymn of Law and Liberty!
THE VOICE OF THE PINE.
O tall old pine! old gloomy pine!
Old grim, gigantic, gloomy pine!
What is there in that voice of thine
That thrills so deep this heart of mine?
Old grim, gigantic, gloomy pine!
What is there in that voice of thine
That thrills so deep this heart of mine?
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Is it that in thy mournful sigh
Old years and voices long gone by,
And feelings that can never die,
Come thronging back on memory?
Old years and voices long gone by,
And feelings that can never die,
Come thronging back on memory?
Is it that in thy solemn roar
My listening spirit hears once more
The trumpet-music of the host
Of billows round my native coast?
My listening spirit hears once more
The trumpet-music of the host
Of billows round my native coast?
Or is it that I catch a sound
Of that more vast and dread profound,—
The soul's unfathomable sea,
The ocean of eternity?
Of that more vast and dread profound,—
The soul's unfathomable sea,
The ocean of eternity?
HOPE AND MEMORY.
Hope—Memory,—blessed pair! how sweetly gleamsO'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 vale 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!
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A LAST FLYING GLANCE AT MOUNT WASHINGTON.
Oh, lovely, soul-entrancing sight!
Mount Washington's majestic height
Soared to the sky, all glistening white!
Mount Washington's majestic height
Soared to the sky, all glistening white!
Leftward the mountain chain below
Stood stark and black against the glow
Of that high slope of dazzling snow.
Stood stark and black against the glow
Of that high slope of dazzling snow.
In front, for miles on miles outspread,
The vale was one great garden-bed
Of crimson, gold, and flaming red.
The vale was one great garden-bed
Of crimson, gold, and flaming red.
Winter stood facing Summer there,
And through the amber autumn air
Looked forth their mutual greeting fair.
And through the amber autumn air
Looked forth their mutual greeting fair.
Ah! all too swiftly from my sight
Was snatched that vision of delight,
Perchance for mortal eye too bright.
Was snatched that vision of delight,
Perchance for mortal eye too bright.
But pictured on the inner eye,
These revelations from on high
Shall last when earthly shadows fly.
These revelations from on high
Shall last when earthly shadows fly.
Beyond the reach of human art,
Engraved forever on the heart,
Such glories never can depart.
Engraved forever on the heart,
Such glories never can depart.
Oct. 8, 1880.
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CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.
(Lines suggested by her request, just before she died, to have Lowell's “Columbus” read to her.)
For wast not thou, too, going forth alone
To seek new land across an untried sea?
New land,—yet to thy soul not all unknown,
Nor yet far off, was that blest shore to thee.
To seek new land across an untried sea?
New land,—yet to thy soul not all unknown,
Nor yet far off, was that blest shore to thee.
For thou hadst felt the mighty mystery
That on man's heart and life doth ever rest,—
A shadow of that glorious world to be,
Where love's pure hope is with fruition blest.
That on man's heart and life doth ever rest,—
A shadow of that glorious world to be,
Where love's pure hope is with fruition blest.
Thine was a conflict none else knew but God,
Who gave thee, to endure it, strength divine.
Alone with Him, the wine-press thou hast trod,
And death, His angel, seals the victory thine.
Who gave thee, to endure it, strength divine.
Alone with Him, the wine-press thou hast trod,
And death, His angel, seals the victory thine.
The narrow sea of death thou now hast passed;
The mist is lifted from the unseen land;
The voyage ends; the shining throng at last
Meet thee with welcome on the heavenly strand.
The mist is lifted from the unseen land;
The voyage ends; the shining throng at last
Meet thee with welcome on the heavenly strand.
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A RHYMED HOMILY.
In the wintry twilight and firelight I sat in my chamber, and thereMusing I watched through the casement, in the still December air,
“As a cloud, and as doves to the windows,” the white-winged feathery snow,
Like a spectral apparition, glide downward soft and slow.
The flakes fell pure and noiseless all over the bare brown land,
A downy mantle weaving, by God's mysterious hand,
The naked earth to cover, and tenderly to keep
The limbs of the weary mother through her long winter sleep.
So Heaven, I thought, lets gently the mantle of mercy fall,
And drops the veil of oblivion on the sins and sorrows of all;
And the white-winged angel of pity comes down through the wintry gloom
Of a world unbelief hath blighted, and whispers of spring-time's bloom.
And I thought how this tranquil snow-fall, as a white cloth, would cover the bier
Where soon should lie stark and rigid the dead and discrownèd year,
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Where rested the dead in their haven from life's tumultuous waves.
And I read in the snow-flakes an emblem how man's generations flee,
And sink and melt in the ocean of cold mortality.
And the sad-eyed angel of Memory moistened with a tear
The cheek of Hope, her sister, as they waited the coming year.
[OMITTED]
I sat in the wintry twilight and mused by the chimney's glow,
And watched the sparks fly upward, as downward fluttered the snow.
Fitfully darted upward these “sons of the burning coals,”—
Flew up and vanished in darkness, like hopes of human souls.
As I sat gazing and musing, the crackling fire burned on,
And another flame within me on the world of the spirit shone.
“Yes, man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward,” I said;
“So short-lived, restless, and fitful, how quickly his years are fled!
But is this, then, the whole of the story the spark-swarms tell in their flight,
Ere their brief and bright trail upward is quenched in the smoky night?
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Give sign in their upward motion of man's true home on high.
The shred of flesh may wither, and melt like snow in the sea;
But the spark of the soul, ascending, inherits eternity.
Life's trials and tribulations—not out of the dust they come;
The troubles that man is born to are angels to point him home.
They come from the faithful Father, to teach man the upward road
That leads, though steep and rugged, to Heaven's serene abode.”
And thus, in my fireside musings, now sate with me angels three,—
The angels of Hope and Remembrance and Immortality.
THE NEW YEAR.
Relentless Time, dear friends, has breathed again
Her wintry mood on Nature and on men.
Long since the recreant sun's declining power
Has clipped the merry daylight hour by hour.
Long since the feathered tribes on tireless wing
Have sought the regions of perpetual spring.
Now bound in amber chains the woodland lake
And laughing streamlet hushed to silence lie.
Now earthward softly floats the glittering flake,
And gathering storm-clouds drift across the sky.
Dead in the hollows lie the autumn leaves,
And through the naked tree-tops softly stirs
The spirit of the dying Year, and grieves
In slow, sad moaning to the universe.
Her wintry mood on Nature and on men.
Long since the recreant sun's declining power
Has clipped the merry daylight hour by hour.
Long since the feathered tribes on tireless wing
Have sought the regions of perpetual spring.
Now bound in amber chains the woodland lake
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Now earthward softly floats the glittering flake,
And gathering storm-clouds drift across the sky.
Dead in the hollows lie the autumn leaves,
And through the naked tree-tops softly stirs
The spirit of the dying Year, and grieves
In slow, sad moaning to the universe.
We stand, indeed, 'twixt two eternities
Of Time; and one has vanished like the dew.
Deep in its breast the stellar systems grew,
And in its dead arms now the last sun lies.
A million ages drop from life and mind
As yesterday, when they are past, and all
The planets circle at their central call,
And never note the years they leave behind.
The slow earth cracked and shrank 'mid rains of fire,
Till through the dull mephitic atmosphere
Young Life arose and whispered, “I am here!”
And thrilled the universe with new desire.
Lo! to the rhythmic chant of Time and Space
An answering murmur chimed from budding trees,
A rushing chorus that shall never cease
Till God hath numbered all the human race.
Far in the sand a sculptured stone appears;
Deep on the halls of kings has grown the mould.
Oh, Love is ever young and ever old,
And hand in hand with Time walk hates and fears.
Deep in the wondrous strata of the earth
Bones of successive ages crystallized;
Humanity lies only half disguised.
A chipped flint tells us of a nation's birth;
From out the mother liquor of events
Precipitates the dim historic tale.
And thou, Old Year, hast passed within the vale,
And night shuts o'er thee with her spangled tents.
Of Time; and one has vanished like the dew.
Deep in its breast the stellar systems grew,
And in its dead arms now the last sun lies.
A million ages drop from life and mind
As yesterday, when they are past, and all
The planets circle at their central call,
And never note the years they leave behind.
The slow earth cracked and shrank 'mid rains of fire,
Till through the dull mephitic atmosphere
Young Life arose and whispered, “I am here!”
And thrilled the universe with new desire.
Lo! to the rhythmic chant of Time and Space
An answering murmur chimed from budding trees,
A rushing chorus that shall never cease
Till God hath numbered all the human race.
Far in the sand a sculptured stone appears;
Deep on the halls of kings has grown the mould.
Oh, Love is ever young and ever old,
And hand in hand with Time walk hates and fears.
Deep in the wondrous strata of the earth
Bones of successive ages crystallized;
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A chipped flint tells us of a nation's birth;
From out the mother liquor of events
Precipitates the dim historic tale.
And thou, Old Year, hast passed within the vale,
And night shuts o'er thee with her spangled tents.
Yet in this shifting, ever-present Now
Alone is found reality of joy.
Each soul with healthy life it doth endow,
And in its magic romps each girl and boy.
We feel the tingling of our pulse, and know
A thousand years will melt away like snow.
As some great continental artery
Empties its flood upon the coming tide,
And in that grand collision far and wide,
Tiptoed to heaven stands up the frothing sea:
So shall the struggle of the nations be;
When flood-gates burst by press of passion high,
The earth's wild wail shall plash against the sky.
Alone is found reality of joy.
Each soul with healthy life it doth endow,
And in its magic romps each girl and boy.
We feel the tingling of our pulse, and know
A thousand years will melt away like snow.
As some great continental artery
Empties its flood upon the coming tide,
And in that grand collision far and wide,
Tiptoed to heaven stands up the frothing sea:
So shall the struggle of the nations be;
When flood-gates burst by press of passion high,
The earth's wild wail shall plash against the sky.
TO AMES'S PICTURE OF THE HAY-MAKER.
Sweet maiden, with the twofold glow
Of health and summer on thy cheek,
Thy thoughts, thy home, I fain would know:
Wilt thou not lift thine eyes and speak?
Of health and summer on thy cheek,
Thy thoughts, thy home, I fain would know:
Wilt thou not lift thine eyes and speak?
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Alone I see thee standing there,
The flush of toil upon thy face,
Out in the silent summer air,
In Nature's calm, unconscious grace.
The flush of toil upon thy face,
Out in the silent summer air,
In Nature's calm, unconscious grace.
“Thy thoughts”? Thou art thyself a thought
Bodied in light,—a magic form
By memory, love, and fancy wrought,
With beauty's blissful breathings warm.
Bodied in light,—a magic form
By memory, love, and fancy wrought,
With beauty's blissful breathings warm.
“Thy home”? Not here its place is found,
Amidst the fairest fields of earth:
A purer air than ours breathes round
The realm serene that gave thee birth.
Amidst the fairest fields of earth:
A purer air than ours breathes round
The realm serene that gave thee birth.
TO THE MEMORY OF H. N. S.
This is not all,—this fleeting world we see:
A fairer, purer, brighter, there must be,
Where dwell all glad and radiant souls like thee!
A fairer, purer, brighter, there must be,
Where dwell all glad and radiant souls like thee!
Where Death's eclipse no more shall cast its gloom,
Nor fell disease life's wasting lamp consume;
Where Love's fair flowers wear amaranthine bloom;
Nor fell disease life's wasting lamp consume;
Where Love's fair flowers wear amaranthine bloom;
Where stormy wind and tempest rage no more;
Drear Winter's long suspense forever o'er—
Peace reigns, unruffled, on that summer shore.
Drear Winter's long suspense forever o'er—
Peace reigns, unruffled, on that summer shore.
148
There, with our loved and lost, the pure and brave,
Dear Brother! thou, where palms immortal wave,
Hast found a home beyond the shadowy grave!
Dear Brother! thou, where palms immortal wave,
Hast found a home beyond the shadowy grave!
The soul that through thy gentle eyes beamed clear
No more in earthly light shall greet us here:
It looks upon us from a brighter sphere.
No more in earthly light shall greet us here:
It looks upon us from a brighter sphere.
And yet we cannot feel that thou art far,
Though now thy spirit, like a tranquil star,
Beckons to where the pure and gentle are.
Though now thy spirit, like a tranquil star,
Beckons to where the pure and gentle are.
Farewell! God's peace we feel, sweet soul! is thine:
We would not faint, nor murmur, nor repine,
Sharing with thee, by faith, thy home divine!
We would not faint, nor murmur, nor repine,
Sharing with thee, by faith, thy home divine!
May, 1876.
LINES COMPOSED AT THE OLD TEMPLES OF MARALIPOOR.
Speak out your secret, bellowing waves,
That thunder round this temple's door,
And when the lashing tempest raves,
Leap in, and wash the sand-heaped floor!
That thunder round this temple's door,
And when the lashing tempest raves,
Leap in, and wash the sand-heaped floor!
149
What hide ye in your watery tomb?
What treasures snatched ye from the shore,
Ye sullen, restless waves that boom
And thunder round this temple's door?
What treasures snatched ye from the shore,
Ye sullen, restless waves that boom
And thunder round this temple's door?
Say, is it true, as legends tell,
That, ages since, great Bali's town,
O'erwhelmed by your encroaching swell,
With tower and temple, all went down?
That, ages since, great Bali's town,
O'erwhelmed by your encroaching swell,
With tower and temple, all went down?
Speak out, thou stern old sentinel,
That lingerest on the outer rock,
That brav'st the undermining swell,
Defiest the overwhelming shock!
That lingerest on the outer rock,
That brav'st the undermining swell,
Defiest the overwhelming shock!
Lies there a city at thy feet,
Far down beneath the moaning tide?
Say (for thou know'st), the tale repeat:
What secret do these waters hide?
Far down beneath the moaning tide?
Say (for thou know'st), the tale repeat:
What secret do these waters hide?
Ye all are voiceless,—silent stone,
And sounding sea: no word ye speak,—
Nor sculptured shape nor billow's moan
Can give the answer that I seek.
And sounding sea: no word ye speak,—
Nor sculptured shape nor billow's moan
Can give the answer that I seek.
Old Ocean rolls as first he rolled
Majestic on creation's day;
And still their course the waters hold,
While man and all his works decay.
Majestic on creation's day;
And still their course the waters hold,
While man and all his works decay.
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Yon grim old shapes—not one of all
Wears terror on his stony brow:
Dead sculptures line that rock-hewn wall,
The four-armed god is harmless now.
Wears terror on his stony brow:
Dead sculptures line that rock-hewn wall,
The four-armed god is harmless now.
Yet can I, as I gaze, revere
The faith that thus, though dimly, bore
Its witness to the power that here
Rolls in the billows on the shore.
The faith that thus, though dimly, bore
Its witness to the power that here
Rolls in the billows on the shore.
And this, too, is the self-same sea
That wets my native coast with spray;
And like a child it welcomes me,
As round my feet its waters play.
That wets my native coast with spray;
And like a child it welcomes me,
As round my feet its waters play.
Oh! could I here to idols turn,
No human pile should be my shrine;
But, Ocean! how my heart would yearn
To come and be a child of thine!
No human pile should be my shrine;
But, Ocean! how my heart would yearn
To come and be a child of thine!
They stand on the very verge of the sea, about thirty-six miles south of Madras, where Southey, in his “Curse of Kehama,” lays the scene of the chapter called “The City of Baly.”
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
ON HEARING IT PLAYED BY FRAULEIN LIEBE.
Grandmother sat in her old arm-chair;
The firelight gleamed on her silvery hair,
The firelight gleamed on her silvery hair,
That flowed like silk from her snowy cap:
Her knitting and spectacles lay in her lap.
Her knitting and spectacles lay in her lap.
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The grandchildren clustered on either side.
“Dear grandma, tell us a tale,” they cried.
“Dear grandma, tell us a tale,” they cried.
And so grandmother began and told
A wonderful tale of the days of old.
A wonderful tale of the days of old.
Grandmother's voice was fine and thin,
Like the far-off tone of a violin.
Like the far-off tone of a violin.
But was it a tale, or was it a tune,
I overheard the old grandma croon,
I overheard the old grandma croon,
As I stood at the window listening there
To the tones that stole on the evening air?
To the tones that stole on the evening air?
It seemed an old story I oft had heard,
Though I vainly sought to catch one word.
Though I vainly sought to catch one word.
'T was childhood's music I seemed to hear,
Coming back to my spell-bound ear;
Coming back to my spell-bound ear;
A tone commingling, sweet and low,
All the dear voices of years ago:
All the dear voices of years ago:
Of mother and sister—the tender refrain
Of Mother Nature's soothing strain;
Of Mother Nature's soothing strain;
The music of childhood's morning air,
The murmur of birds and bees was there;
The murmur of birds and bees was there;
The musical patter on roof and pane
In summer nights of the gentle rain,
In summer nights of the gentle rain,
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The patter of happy children's feet,
The ring of their voices in house and street:
The ring of their voices in house and street:
All this came back to my soul with a thrill
Of rapture that haunts my memory still,—
Of rapture that haunts my memory still,—
A rapture no words can ever tell:
It steals on the heart in the plaintive swell,
It steals on the heart in the plaintive swell,
The wild, the tender, human tone,
Of the whispering violin alone.
Of the whispering violin alone.
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG ARTIST.
The breath of morn and May,
Soft as a spirit's influence, drew him forth
To spend with Nature one more tranquil day,
And look his last on this majestic earth.
Soft as a spirit's influence, drew him forth
To spend with Nature one more tranquil day,
And look his last on this majestic earth.
Reclining on her breast,
He reads once more her sweet, benignant face,
Then peacefully to rest
Sinks like a child, there, in her great embrace.
He reads once more her sweet, benignant face,
Then peacefully to rest
Sinks like a child, there, in her great embrace.
Alone! no human eye
Hung o'er him, as he lay, with yearning love;
Yet God's blue, tender sky
Looked down upon him through the pines above.
Hung o'er him, as he lay, with yearning love;
Yet God's blue, tender sky
Looked down upon him through the pines above.
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So near—and yet alone!
No kindred hand to smooth his dying bed;
But a low plaintive moan,
As of a spirit, stirred the boughs o'erhead.
No kindred hand to smooth his dying bed;
But a low plaintive moan,
As of a spirit, stirred the boughs o'erhead.
It was God's spirit near!
“For so He giveth his belovèd sleep,”
And strews the leafy bier,
And bids his angels watch around him keep.
“For so He giveth his belovèd sleep,”
And strews the leafy bier,
And bids his angels watch around him keep.
He was—and is—at home;
Gone hence, attended by a spirit-band,
Where death no more can come,
He dwells now in his native spirit-land.
Gone hence, attended by a spirit-band,
Where death no more can come,
He dwells now in his native spirit-land.
Was it not meet that so—
By heaven's mysterious whisper called away—
That gentle one should go
Hence, in the tenderness of life's pure May;
By heaven's mysterious whisper called away—
That gentle one should go
Hence, in the tenderness of life's pure May;
As the breeze dies away—
Mysteriously dies;
As dies the fading light, at close of day,
In summer skies!
Mysteriously dies;
As dies the fading light, at close of day,
In summer skies!
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THE OLD HOMES.
The heart's old homes! how many we have known!But three, most dear of all, I call my own.
Three homes are mine: to each my spirit clings;
To each my song a grateful tribute brings.
The first, my place of birth: the dear old town
Where to my infant eyes Heaven first came down;
Where my first foretaste of its perfect bliss
Came in a mother's smile, a mother's kiss;
Where Nature's wondrous face my musings blessed;
Where Heaven upon the treetops seemed to rest.
Then that fair island, scarce less dear to me,
Embosomed in New England's Zuyder Zee, —
The home of my adoption; where I found
Amidst the sea of life an anchoring ground;
Where the transplanted tree put forth young shoots,
And drank new life through all its clinging roots:
But yet a third sweet home I still would name,
Whose charms with equal right that title claim
Where first the Muses won my youthful love,
And drew my steps to their enchanted grove;
Where first I felt the awful, rapturous thrill
That stirs the heart beneath their sacred hill;
Drank inspiration from Castalia's fount,
And breathed the air that floats o'er Delphi's mount;
Where first I heard old Homer's trumpet clang,
And Virgil's Mantuan pipe melodious sang.
155
HARVARD'S ELM-TREES.
Ah! whither, when they vanished, flew
Those four fair years we journeyed through,
From '28 to '32,
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees?
Those four fair years we journeyed through,
From '28 to '32,
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees?
From '28 to '32
How sweetly beamed the noonday blue;
How sweetly summer moons looked through
Old Harvard's ancient elm-trees!
How sweetly beamed the noonday blue;
How sweetly summer moons looked through
Old Harvard's ancient elm-trees!
From '28 to '32
A band of brothers, fond and true,
What thrills of hope and joy we knew
Under old Harvard's elm-trees!
A band of brothers, fond and true,
What thrills of hope and joy we knew
Under old Harvard's elm-trees!
From '28 to '32
Morn gleamed upon Castalian dew,
As, merry college birds, we flew
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
Morn gleamed upon Castalian dew,
As, merry college birds, we flew
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
And when the glow of evening threw
Around the scene each magic hue,
How sweet the twilight rendezvous
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
Around the scene each magic hue,
How sweet the twilight rendezvous
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
From '28 to '32,
Ah! hopes were high and fears were few,
As boyhood into manhood grew
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
Ah! hopes were high and fears were few,
As boyhood into manhood grew
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
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Then soft life's picture fancy drew,
And called our spell-bound eyes to view,
Through her enchanted avenue,
From under Harvard's elm-trees!
And called our spell-bound eyes to view,
Through her enchanted avenue,
From under Harvard's elm-trees!
Ere yet the sober truth we knew;
Or envious fate the signal blew,
That sent a wintry shiver through
The leaves of Harvard's elm-trees.
Or envious fate the signal blew,
That sent a wintry shiver through
The leaves of Harvard's elm-trees.
And each live stem a mast-head grew,
Whence all the pennons seaward flew,
That summoned us to bid adieu
To Harvard's dear old elm-trees.
Whence all the pennons seaward flew,
That summoned us to bid adieu
To Harvard's dear old elm-trees.
Ah! moments, months, too fast ye flew
From '28 to '32;
Yet still our hearts past hours renew
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees.
From '28 to '32;
Yet still our hearts past hours renew
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees.
Shades of the dead! once more with you
We live departed moments through,
And heavenly words we listen to
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
We live departed moments through,
And heavenly words we listen to
Beneath old Harvard's elm-trees!
Oh! when I sink, as all must do,
Above me plant no funeral yew:
Down on my rest let stars look through
Fair Harvard's dear old elm-trees!
Above me plant no funeral yew:
Down on my rest let stars look through
Fair Harvard's dear old elm-trees!
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Companions dear of '32,
When God in mercy leads us through
The shining gates—to me and you—
Were heaven quite heaven without the view
Of Harvard's dear old elm-trees?
When God in mercy leads us through
The shining gates—to me and you—
Were heaven quite heaven without the view
Of Harvard's dear old elm-trees?
THE PROPHECY OF YOUTH.
When, in the pilgrimage of life,—
Its morning dreams, its midday turmoil past,—
Led by the gentle hand of Time,
We come at last,
With no unwilling step, to climb
The sunset-mountain's brow;
Far from the din and dust of earth's bewildering strife,
And, rapt in musing wonder, now
Amidst the sober glories stand
Of memory's autumnal land,
And rest our toil-worn feet
From the long march; and for the noonday's heat
Bathe in cool splendors of the evening sky;—
Then, as the clearer eye,
Purged from ambition's fire
And fever-heat of passionate desire,
Looks back, with wistful gaze,
To the fair hours and haunts of youthful days,—
How near, indeed, how near,
In that serene and tranquil atmosphere,
Those far-off morning fields of unsoiled life appear!
Nay, 'tis not all a dream!
The fair illusion veils a fairer truth!
The visionary gleam,
The roseate glow that lie
Before fond Memory's eye,
On the dew-spangled landscape of our youth,
Come from a land within, that prophesies
A morning yet to rise
Upon the soul in these immortal skies,
That glow where Hope and Memory, hand in hand,
Hail their celestial home, their common fatherland.
Its morning dreams, its midday turmoil past,—
Led by the gentle hand of Time,
We come at last,
With no unwilling step, to climb
The sunset-mountain's brow;
Far from the din and dust of earth's bewildering strife,
And, rapt in musing wonder, now
Amidst the sober glories stand
Of memory's autumnal land,
And rest our toil-worn feet
From the long march; and for the noonday's heat
Bathe in cool splendors of the evening sky;—
Then, as the clearer eye,
Purged from ambition's fire
And fever-heat of passionate desire,
Looks back, with wistful gaze,
To the fair hours and haunts of youthful days,—
How near, indeed, how near,
In that serene and tranquil atmosphere,
Those far-off morning fields of unsoiled life appear!
158
The fair illusion veils a fairer truth!
The visionary gleam,
The roseate glow that lie
Before fond Memory's eye,
On the dew-spangled landscape of our youth,
Come from a land within, that prophesies
A morning yet to rise
Upon the soul in these immortal skies,
That glow where Hope and Memory, hand in hand,
Hail their celestial home, their common fatherland.
True! in the morning of our days,
Hope's rainbow in the west appears,
And evening's backward glancing rays,
Shining perchance through Sorrow's tears,
Light up its image in the east;
But still, as on the past we gaze,
The memory of a hope, at least,
Life's evening hour consoles and cheers.
Hope's rainbow in the west appears,
And evening's backward glancing rays,
Shining perchance through Sorrow's tears,
Light up its image in the east;
But still, as on the past we gaze,
The memory of a hope, at least,
Life's evening hour consoles and cheers.
Yea, the remembered dreams of long ago,
As angels, cheer us on with hope's warm glow;
The morning visions fair, that hovered round
Our wayward steps on youth's enchanted ground,
Come back again, and stand revealed anew
In clearer light to manhood's calmer view.
As angels, cheer us on with hope's warm glow;
The morning visions fair, that hovered round
Our wayward steps on youth's enchanted ground,
Come back again, and stand revealed anew
In clearer light to manhood's calmer view.
O mystery of our being! Endless praise
To Him who links in one our fleeting days!
Whose spirit bids, in mystic union sweet,
Boyhood and manhood, age and childhood, meet.
Then, brothers, gladly own, forevermore,
We are but children on the murmuring shore
Of that vast, mystic deep, whence saint and sage
Have caught inspiring airs in every age,—
Being's immense, unfathomable sea;
Whose waters whisper of eternity,—
Whence never wing or line of human thought
Tidings of bottom or of bound have brought;—
Ethereal ocean, on whose boundless breast
All worlds and souls forever ride and rest.
To Him who links in one our fleeting days!
Whose spirit bids, in mystic union sweet,
Boyhood and manhood, age and childhood, meet.
159
We are but children on the murmuring shore
Of that vast, mystic deep, whence saint and sage
Have caught inspiring airs in every age,—
Being's immense, unfathomable sea;
Whose waters whisper of eternity,—
Whence never wing or line of human thought
Tidings of bottom or of bound have brought;—
Ethereal ocean, on whose boundless breast
All worlds and souls forever ride and rest.
A PLEA FOR FLOOD IRESON.
Who is the greybeard, haggard and hoar,
Splitting to pieces beside his door
A boat hauled up on the rocky shore?
Splitting to pieces beside his door
A boat hauled up on the rocky shore?
160
'T is old Flood Ireson—pale and spare
Are his sunken cheeks, and his fluttering hair
Is white, and wasted with age and care.
Are his sunken cheeks, and his fluttering hair
Is white, and wasted with age and care.
What a serpent-like sting hath a thoughtless tongue!
For fifty years the children had sung
A false and taunting song, that wrung
For fifty years the children had sung
A false and taunting song, that wrung
The old man's heart with a life-long pain,
With the memory of that wild refrain
Burning into his very brain;
With the memory of that wild refrain
Burning into his very brain;
Till now in the street, with bated breath,
Neighbor to neighbor whispereth:
“The poor old man is cowed to death.”
Neighbor to neighbor whispereth:
“The poor old man is cowed to death.”
Old Flood Ireson! all too long
Have jeer and gibe and ribald song
Done thy memory cruel wrong.
Have jeer and gibe and ribald song
Done thy memory cruel wrong.
Old Flood Ireson, bending low
Under the weight of years and woe,
Crept to his refuge long ago.
Under the weight of years and woe,
Crept to his refuge long ago.
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Old Flood Ireson! gone is the throng
Who in the dory dragged him along,
Hooting and tooting with ribald song.
Who in the dory dragged him along,
Hooting and tooting with ribald song.
Gone is the pack, and gone the prey;
Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day
Is hunted still down Time's highway.
Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day
Is hunted still down Time's highway.
Old wife Fame, with a fish-horn's blare
Hooting and tooting the same old air,
Drags him along the old thoroughfare.
Hooting and tooting the same old air,
Drags him along the old thoroughfare.
Mocked evermore with the old refrain
Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain,
Jingling and jolting he comes again
Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain,
Jingling and jolting he comes again
Over that road of old renown,—
Fair broad avenue, leading down
Through South Fields to Salem town;
Fair broad avenue, leading down
Through South Fields to Salem town;
Scourged and stung by the Muses' thong
Mounted high on the ear of song,—
Sight that cries, O Lord! how long!
Mounted high on the ear of song,—
Sight that cries, O Lord! how long!
Shall Heaven look on and not take part
With the poor old man and his fluttering heart,—
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart?
With the poor old man and his fluttering heart,—
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart?
Old Flood Ireson, now when Fame
Wipes away, with tears of shame,
Stains from many an injured name,
Wipes away, with tears of shame,
Stains from many an injured name,
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Shall not, again in the tuneful line,
Beams of Truth and of Mercy shine
Bright through the clouds that darken thine?
Beams of Truth and of Mercy shine
Bright through the clouds that darken thine?
Very familiar to my childhood was the “Chant of Flood Ireson,” and thus it ran:—
“Old Flood Oirson, for his hord hort,Was tor'd and futher'd and corried in a cort.
Old Flood Oirson, for his bad behavior,
Was tor'd and futher'd and corried into Salem.
Old Flood Oirson, for leaving a wrack,
Was torred and futher'd all over his back.”
The people of Marblehead have been for years entirely satisfied that Ireson suffered unjustly, and very indignant that their ancestors and ancestresses should be eulogized in the glowing strains of poesy for what was only the momentary ebullition of the rage of a parcel of wharf boys. John W. Chadwick, a native of Marblehead, in his charming paper on the old town in the July number of “Harper's Magazine” for 1874, says: “It was in the night that the wreck was discovered. In the darkness and the heavy sea, it was impossible to give assistance. When the skipper went below he ordered the watch to lie by the wreck till dorning; but the watch wilfully disobeyed, and afterward, to shield themselves, laid all the blame upon the skipper. I asked one of the skipper's contemporaries what the effect was on the skipper. ‘Cowed him to death,’ said he.”
A PHILOLOGICAL DITTY.
Ye wise ones who tell us, with infinite pains,
What everything borrows its name from,
Once more will ye ransack your books and your brains
And tell us where Woman's name came from?
What everything borrows its name from,
Once more will ye ransack your books and your brains
And tell us where Woman's name came from?
We bid you not tell, for we know it full well,
That Man is the finish of Human;
But humbly we pray, good gentlemen, say
Why man's better half is called Woman?
That Man is the finish of Human;
But humbly we pray, good gentlemen, say
Why man's better half is called Woman?
We know too, full well, that Adam once fell,
As the record, so ancient, doth show, man,
And that Eve was the cause of his breaking the laws;
But must she for that be a Woe-man?
As the record, so ancient, doth show, man,
And that Eve was the cause of his breaking the laws;
But must she for that be a Woe-man?
And this we know too, if History's true,
If Homer once sang like a true man;
When woman draws nigh, there's that in her eye
Which seems to say audibly: Woo-man.
If Homer once sang like a true man;
When woman draws nigh, there's that in her eye
Which seems to say audibly: Woo-man.
Come, then, help us out from this thorn-hedge of doubt,
Some kindly philosopher; do, man!
For if we should die, we cannot tell why
The partner of man is called Woman.
Some kindly philosopher; do, man!
For if we should die, we cannot tell why
The partner of man is called Woman.
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SALEM.
When an old son of Salem, after years
Of exile, in his native streets appears,
Behold, in his perplexed and eager glance,
What crowds of questions yearn for utterance!
Pray, can you tell me, friend, if hereabout
There lives a person by the name of Strout?
What has become of that queer winking man,
Called “Jaquish,” who could saw a load of tan?
Does the old green Gibraltar-cart still stop,
Up in Old Paved Street, at Aunt Hannah's shop?
Beside Cold Spring drop the sweet acorns still?
Do boys dig flagroot now beneath Legge's Hill?
When 'Lection-day brings round its rapturous joys,
Does Dr. Lang sell liquorice to the boys?
Is there a house still standing where they make
The regular old-fashioned 'Lection-cake?
Does “A True Grocer” his own merits praise?
Does Mister Joseph bake cold loaves some days?
Deputy Dutch and dog—do they still chase
The recreant debtor to his hiding-place?
Do children sometimes see with terror, still,
The midnight blaze of wood-wax on Witch Hill?
Or hail, far twinkling through the shades of night,
The cheering beam of Baker's Island Light?
Where is the old North Church that heard the tread
Of Sabbath-breaking troops from Marblehead?
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?
Where the old sounding-board, that hung mid-air,
A sword of Damocles, by a wooden hair?
Each urchin watched, with mingled 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!
Where the knob-headed pole—the magic wand—
The dreaded ensign of his stern command?
Full many an urchin of the gallery crew
Feared that long sceptre—aye! and felt it too.
Little old man, thy image leads a train
Of funny recollections through the brain.
It marks a time when doubts began to grow,
If bodily shivers fanned the spirit's glow;
When 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.
Gaunt organ-blower! how thy Sunday face
Threw o'er thee such a sanctimonious grace,
That strangers had been sometimes known to err,
And take the blower for the minister.
How in the pauses of his holy toil,
As if anointed with invisible oil,
He looked from out his cell complacent round,
Rapt with the memory of the solemn sound,
With large, contented eyes that seemed to say,—
“Have we not done the music well to-day?”
Of exile, in his native streets appears,
Behold, in his perplexed and eager glance,
What crowds of questions yearn for utterance!
Pray, can you tell me, friend, if hereabout
There lives a person by the name of Strout?
What has become of that queer winking man,
Called “Jaquish,” who could saw a load of tan?
Does the old green Gibraltar-cart still stop,
Up in Old Paved Street, at Aunt Hannah's shop?
Beside Cold Spring drop the sweet acorns still?
Do boys dig flagroot now beneath Legge's Hill?
When 'Lection-day brings round its rapturous joys,
Does Dr. Lang sell liquorice to the boys?
Is there a house still standing where they make
The regular old-fashioned 'Lection-cake?
Does “A True Grocer” his own merits praise?
Does Mister Joseph bake cold loaves some days?
Deputy Dutch and dog—do they still chase
The recreant debtor to his hiding-place?
Do children sometimes see with terror, still,
The midnight blaze of wood-wax on Witch Hill?
Or hail, far twinkling through the shades of night,
The cheering beam of Baker's Island Light?
Where is the old North Church that heard the tread
Of Sabbath-breaking troops from Marblehead?
Where—in what realm—do still these eyes behold,
164
They looked upon that holy, homely place,
The old square pews and each familiar face?
Where the old sounding-board, that hung mid-air,
A sword of Damocles, by a wooden hair?
Each urchin watched, with mingled 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!
Where the knob-headed pole—the magic wand—
The dreaded ensign of his stern command?
Full many an urchin of the gallery crew
Feared that long sceptre—aye! and felt it too.
Little old man, thy image leads a train
Of funny recollections through the brain.
It marks a time when doubts began to grow,
If bodily shivers fanned the spirit's glow;
When 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.
Gaunt organ-blower! how thy Sunday face
Threw o'er thee such a sanctimonious grace,
That strangers had been sometimes known to err,
And take the blower for the minister.
How in the pauses of his holy toil,
As if anointed with invisible oil,
He looked from out his cell complacent round,
Rapt with the memory of the solemn sound,
165
“Have we not done the music well to-day?”
But still fresh questions crowd upon his mind,
And still sad answers he is doomed to find.
Yet while the pilgrim, roaming up and down
The streets and alleys of his native town,
So many a well-known object seeks in vain,
The sky, the sea, the rock-ribbed hills remain.
In the low murmur of the quivering breeze
That stirs the leaves of old ancestral trees,
The same maternal voice he still can hear
That breathed of old in childhood's dreaming ear;
The same maternal smile is in the sky
Whose tender greeting blessed his infant eye.
Though much has changed, and much has vanished quite,
The old town-pastures have not passed from sight.
Delectable mountains of his childhood! there
They stretch away into the summer air.
Still the bare rocks in golden lustres shine,
Still bloom the barberry and the columbine,
As when of old, on many a “Lecture-day,”
Through bush and swamp he took his winding way,
Toiled the long afternoon, then homeward steered,
With weary feet and visage berry-smeared.
And still sad answers he is doomed to find.
Yet while the pilgrim, roaming up and down
The streets and alleys of his native town,
So many a well-known object seeks in vain,
The sky, the sea, the rock-ribbed hills remain.
In the low murmur of the quivering breeze
That stirs the leaves of old ancestral trees,
The same maternal voice he still can hear
That breathed of old in childhood's dreaming ear;
The same maternal smile is in the sky
Whose tender greeting blessed his infant eye.
Though much has changed, and much has vanished quite,
The old town-pastures have not passed from sight.
Delectable mountains of his childhood! there
They stretch away into the summer air.
Still the bare rocks in golden lustres shine,
Still bloom the barberry and the columbine,
As when of old, on many a “Lecture-day,”
Through bush and swamp he took his winding way,
Toiled the long afternoon, then homeward steered,
With weary feet and visage berry-smeared.
Thus to some favorite haunt will each to-day,
At least in fond remembrance, find his way.
My thoughts, by some mysterious instinct, take
Their flight to that charmed spot we called The Neck;
Aye! round the Mother's neck I fondly cling;
Around her neck, like beads, my rhymes I string.
She will not scorn my offering, though it be
Like beads of flying foam, flung by the sea
Across the rocks, to gleam a moment there,
Then break and vanish in the summer air.
At least in fond remembrance, find his way.
My thoughts, by some mysterious instinct, take
Their flight to that charmed spot we called The Neck;
166
Around her neck, like beads, my rhymes I string.
She will not scorn my offering, though it be
Like beads of flying foam, flung by the sea
Across the rocks, to gleam a moment there,
Then break and vanish in the summer air.
Then hail once more The Neck—the dear, old Neck!
What throngs of bright and peaceful memories wake
At that compendious name! what rapturous joy
Kindles the heart of an old Salem boy!
Within its gate a realm of shadows lay,—
A land of mystery stretching far away.
There with the ghostly past I talked,—with awe
The ancient Mother's august form I saw.
Oft in the Sabbath evening's quiet ray,
Down this old storied street we took our way
To where, beside the fresh, cool, spray-wet shore,
Old Colonel Hathorne's hospitable door
Invited us to rest; serenely there
The patriarch greeted us with musing air.
What but a bit of Eden could it be,—
That little garden close upon the sea?
Within red rose, and redder currants glow,—
Without, the white-lipped ocean whispers low.
What throngs of bright and peaceful memories wake
At that compendious name! what rapturous joy
Kindles the heart of an old Salem boy!
Within its gate a realm of shadows lay,—
A land of mystery stretching far away.
There with the ghostly past I talked,—with awe
The ancient Mother's august form I saw.
Oft in the Sabbath evening's quiet ray,
Down this old storied street we took our way
To where, beside the fresh, cool, spray-wet shore,
Old Colonel Hathorne's hospitable door
Invited us to rest; serenely there
The patriarch greeted us with musing air.
What but a bit of Eden could it be,—
That little garden close upon the sea?
Within red rose, and redder currants glow,—
Without, the white-lipped ocean whispers low.
I climb yon hill, and see, forevermore,
A spectral sail approach the wooded shore.
On Winter Island wharf I see them land,
A ghostly train comes forth upon the strand:
Reverent and brave, inflexible, sedate,
Founders and fathers of the Church and State.
A village springs to life,—a busy port;
It has its bustling wharves, its bristling fort.
Lo! Fish Street—destined one day to run down
To Water Street—now runs to Water-town.
Can fancy quite recall to-day the charms
Of those enchanting “Marble Harbor Farms”?
Are the “sweet single roses” still in bloom?
Still do the “strawberries” the air perfume?
And from the flowers and shrubs that clothe the ground
Does a “sweet smell of gardens” breathe around?
Well can we guess what charms the landscape wore
When first our fathers trod this silent shore;
And, sweetly locked in sheltering arms, that day,
Their shallop safe in “Summer Harbour” lay.
Such was the name they gave the spot when first
Upon their yearning eyes its beauty burst;
Till by a threefold, nay, a fourfold claim,
Salem showed right divine to be its name.
For Salem they were taught of old to pray;
To peace—to Salem—God had led their way;
A spark of strife at Conant's breath had died—
“In Salem now—in Peace—we dwell,” they cried.
A spectral sail approach the wooded shore.
On Winter Island wharf I see them land,
A ghostly train comes forth upon the strand:
167
Founders and fathers of the Church and State.
A village springs to life,—a busy port;
It has its bustling wharves, its bristling fort.
Lo! Fish Street—destined one day to run down
To Water Street—now runs to Water-town.
Can fancy quite recall to-day the charms
Of those enchanting “Marble Harbor Farms”?
Are the “sweet single roses” still in bloom?
Still do the “strawberries” the air perfume?
And from the flowers and shrubs that clothe the ground
Does a “sweet smell of gardens” breathe around?
Well can we guess what charms the landscape wore
When first our fathers trod this silent shore;
And, sweetly locked in sheltering arms, that day,
Their shallop safe in “Summer Harbour” lay.
Such was the name they gave the spot when first
Upon their yearning eyes its beauty burst;
Till by a threefold, nay, a fourfold claim,
Salem showed right divine to be its name.
For Salem they were taught of old to pray;
To peace—to Salem—God had led their way;
A spark of strife at Conant's breath had died—
“In Salem now—in Peace—we dwell,” they cried.
Peace to my lingering song! and peace to thee,
City of Peace! of Pilgrim memory,
Sweet home and sacred shrine, old Salem town!
And add bright centuries to thy old renown!
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,—
With thee my song shall close. O patient friends,
'T is 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 re-enkindle there the faith sublime,
That hears through all earth's din the Eternal City's chime.
City of Peace! of Pilgrim memory,
Sweet home and sacred shrine, old Salem town!
And add bright centuries to thy old renown!
No words could ever give fit thanks to thee
For all that thou hast given and been to me!
168
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,—
With thee my song shall close. O patient friends,
'T is 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 re-enkindle there the faith sublime,
That hears through all earth's din the Eternal City's chime.
THE SUMMONS.
Heavenward swells our fervent song:
Heavenly voices, clear and strong,
Cheer us, as we march along,
Soldiers of the day!
Pilgrim-soldiers here below,
In the strength of God we go:
He his faithful sons will show
All the shining way.
Heavenly voices, clear and strong,
Cheer us, as we march along,
Soldiers of the day!
Pilgrim-soldiers here below,
In the strength of God we go:
169
All the shining way.
Sons of freemen! will ye be
Sons of Freedom, truly free
In the spirit's liberty?
Each base lure tread down!
Onward, upward—daily, press!
Freedom's price is watchfulness:
This the Lord of Heaven shall bless
And with triumph crown.
Sons of Freedom, truly free
In the spirit's liberty?
Each base lure tread down!
Onward, upward—daily, press!
Freedom's price is watchfulness:
This the Lord of Heaven shall bless
And with triumph crown.
Patiently your souls possess,
Temperance, patience, godliness,
These shall give you good success,
In your heavenward way:
Then, whate'er your lot below—
Storm or sunshine, weal or woe—
Hope, like morning light, shall grow
To the perfect day.
Temperance, patience, godliness,
These shall give you good success,
In your heavenward way:
Then, whate'er your lot below—
Storm or sunshine, weal or woe—
Hope, like morning light, shall grow
To the perfect day.
THE LAND AND THE FLAG.
Comrades plighted,
Fast united,
Firm, to death, for freedom stand!
See your country torn and bleeding!
Hear a mother's solemn pleading!
Rescue Freedom's promised land!
Fast united,
Firm, to death, for freedom stand!
See your country torn and bleeding!
Hear a mother's solemn pleading!
Rescue Freedom's promised land!
170
In her keeping
Dust lies sleeping,
Kindled once with noblest fires;
Hark! e'en now their slumbers breaking,
Round her flag, indignant waking,
Muster our immortal sires!
Dust lies sleeping,
Kindled once with noblest fires;
Hark! e'en now their slumbers breaking,
Round her flag, indignant waking,
Muster our immortal sires!
Ensign glorious,
Float victorious!
Treason's gloomy hordes dispel!
Cheer the freeman sinking—dying—
Send the pallid foeman flying,
Triumph o'er the might of hell!
Float victorious!
Treason's gloomy hordes dispel!
Cheer the freeman sinking—dying—
Send the pallid foeman flying,
Triumph o'er the might of hell!
Night may shroud us,
Death becloud us,
Through all glooms thy stars shall shine!
Motherland, before thine altar,
Swear we ne'er to faint or falter,
Conquering—falling—still we 're thine!
Death becloud us,
Through all glooms thy stars shall shine!
Motherland, before thine altar,
Swear we ne'er to faint or falter,
Conquering—falling—still we 're thine!
1863.
COMMEMORATION.
How beautiful the feet that slowly tread
Thy silent streets, O City of the Dead!
How beautiful the hands that bring these flowers,
The fragrant offerings of the balmy hours!
Come to the “Field of God,” while flying Spring
Fans the green earth with blossom-laden wing,
And, hovering, waves farewell, ere yet she soars
Where Spring perennial gilds immortal shores,—
Come, softly lay on many an honored grave
Affection's tribute to the true and brave!
Thy silent streets, O City of the Dead!
How beautiful the hands that bring these flowers,
The fragrant offerings of the balmy hours!
Come to the “Field of God,” while flying Spring
Fans the green earth with blossom-laden wing,
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Where Spring perennial gilds immortal shores,—
Come, softly lay on many an honored grave
Affection's tribute to the true and brave!
In these calm precincts of untroubled peace,
Earth's din and strife, its toil and turmoil, cease;
And here the soldier rests from that stern strife
In which for freedom's cause he gave his life.
By day heaven's broad, blue curtain, high outspread,
The tent-roof stretches o'er his silent bed;
And through the dusk, or soft in lunar light,
The starry flag of Freedom gleams by night.
How peacefully he rests! how still and deep,
How sound and breathless his unbroken sleep!
The trumpet's call shall startle him no more;
Nor musket's flash, nor cannon-thunder's roar,
Nor clash of steel, nor foeman's midnight tramp
Shall break the stillness of this solemn camp.
Earth's din and strife, its toil and turmoil, cease;
And here the soldier rests from that stern strife
In which for freedom's cause he gave his life.
By day heaven's broad, blue curtain, high outspread,
The tent-roof stretches o'er his silent bed;
And through the dusk, or soft in lunar light,
The starry flag of Freedom gleams by night.
How peacefully he rests! how still and deep,
How sound and breathless his unbroken sleep!
The trumpet's call shall startle him no more;
Nor musket's flash, nor cannon-thunder's roar,
Nor clash of steel, nor foeman's midnight tramp
Shall break the stillness of this solemn camp.
“Peace hath her victories.”—Lo! God's peace is here.
From earth and sky come words of lofty cheer!
A living spirit whispers in the breeze,
A living spirit haunts the rustling trees;
The blithe bird's carol and the floweret's bloom,
The grass-blades quivering round the silent tomb,
The teeming earth, the boundless sky o'erhead,
Proclaim: “God is the God not of the dead,
But of the living,—for to Him all live,
And to His care perpetual witness give!”
Come, ponder here! the silence of the grave
Points to the soul where palms of victory wave.
Bring, then, your flowers, with Nature's tear-drops wet,
And, while the last Spring hours are lingering yet,
Lay them, with tender, reverent love, to grace
The mounds that rise above the resting-place
Where those brave souls have laid earth's armor down,
To wear the spirit's light and lustrous crown.
From earth and sky come words of lofty cheer!
A living spirit whispers in the breeze,
A living spirit haunts the rustling trees;
The blithe bird's carol and the floweret's bloom,
The grass-blades quivering round the silent tomb,
The teeming earth, the boundless sky o'erhead,
Proclaim: “God is the God not of the dead,
But of the living,—for to Him all live,
And to His care perpetual witness give!”
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Points to the soul where palms of victory wave.
Bring, then, your flowers, with Nature's tear-drops wet,
And, while the last Spring hours are lingering yet,
Lay them, with tender, reverent love, to grace
The mounds that rise above the resting-place
Where those brave souls have laid earth's armor down,
To wear the spirit's light and lustrous crown.
Newport, May 31, 1869.
DEDICATION.
Unseen and omnipresent Power,
Eternal Wisdom, boundless Love,
Whose finger paints the lowliest flower,
And strews the starry fields above!
Eternal Wisdom, boundless Love,
Whose finger paints the lowliest flower,
And strews the starry fields above!
Where shall thy glorious home be found?
Shall man, a mote in endless space,
Lost in creation's blazing round,
Build for his God a dwelling-place?
Shall man, a mote in endless space,
Lost in creation's blazing round,
Build for his God a dwelling-place?
Lord, in our hearts thy temple build,
Our thoughts thy chosen mansion be;
A mansion with thy spirit filled,
Thy love, thy peace, thy purity!
Our thoughts thy chosen mansion be;
A mansion with thy spirit filled,
Thy love, thy peace, thy purity!
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THE HOUSE OF MERCY.
High up it stands, as well beseems its use.
Neighbor to Heaven that house may fitly be
Where sisters of mankind do works of Heaven.
Are they not angels, who with gentle feet
On mercy's errands tread these corridors,
And carry pleasant food and pleasant words
Of comfort, kindliness, and gentleness,
And carry twofold light to darkened rooms,
To darkened eyes and many a lowly heart?
Felicia, Benigna, Benedicta:
Happy, benign, most blessed is their work;
Happy, benign, and blessed be their names!
Neighbor to Heaven that house may fitly be
Where sisters of mankind do works of Heaven.
Are they not angels, who with gentle feet
On mercy's errands tread these corridors,
And carry pleasant food and pleasant words
Of comfort, kindliness, and gentleness,
And carry twofold light to darkened rooms,
To darkened eyes and many a lowly heart?
Felicia, Benigna, Benedicta:
Happy, benign, most blessed is their work;
Happy, benign, and blessed be their names!
“Set on a hill, a city is not hid,”
Said the world's Teacher,—yet from me was hid,
While yet my eyes were strong, this gracious house;
Nor did I find it till my sight was dim,
When in that watch-tower chamber, a lone guest,
I watched and waited through the lonely night
For morn to come and bring the skilful hand
That said to the blind eye: “Let there be light.”
High stands the house of mercy, as the works
Of mercy stand recorded high in Heaven.
“Whoso shall be the greatest of you all,
The same shall be your servant,” saith the Lord;
And so this mansion towers above the world,
High o'er the jar and jangle of the town,—
O'er all its wranglings and its rivalries,
Lofty in place, lowly in purposes;
Glory to God and good to man its aim.
Above the world, yet in and for the world;
It seems to say, in words the heart can hear:
“They best do honor God, who most serve man.”
Said the world's Teacher,—yet from me was hid,
While yet my eyes were strong, this gracious house;
Nor did I find it till my sight was dim,
When in that watch-tower chamber, a lone guest,
I watched and waited through the lonely night
For morn to come and bring the skilful hand
That said to the blind eye: “Let there be light.”
High stands the house of mercy, as the works
Of mercy stand recorded high in Heaven.
“Whoso shall be the greatest of you all,
The same shall be your servant,” saith the Lord;
And so this mansion towers above the world,
High o'er the jar and jangle of the town,—
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Lofty in place, lowly in purposes;
Glory to God and good to man its aim.
Above the world, yet in and for the world;
It seems to say, in words the heart can hear:
“They best do honor God, who most serve man.”
Carney Hospital, South Boston,
Nov. 24, 1871.
THE TRUE LIGHT.
“Truly the light is sweet,” the Preacher says.
“Truly the light is sweet,” my heart replies.
Sweet is the very memory of the days
Whose morn and evening light once blessed my eyes.
“Truly the light is sweet,” my heart replies.
Sweet is the very memory of the days
Whose morn and evening light once blessed my eyes.
Pleasant it is, and goodly, to behold
The flower of day unfold from bud to bloom;
Or noontide bathe the world in molten gold;
Or eve's lost fire, ere yet it sinks in gloom.
The flower of day unfold from bud to bloom;
Or noontide bathe the world in molten gold;
Or eve's lost fire, ere yet it sinks in gloom.
And oh! how sweet to see the stars arise,
As, one by one, each faint and twinkling spark,
From its far home in the unfathomed skies,
Swells the vast host that lightens all the dark.
As, one by one, each faint and twinkling spark,
From its far home in the unfathomed skies,
Swells the vast host that lightens all the dark.
“Truly the light is sweet,” for God is light:
Each ray a beam from his eternal eye;
And in the sweet, mysterious power of sight,
My soul a kindred feels with worlds on high.
Each ray a beam from his eternal eye;
And in the sweet, mysterious power of sight,
My soul a kindred feels with worlds on high.
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But sweetest is thy light, O Truth Divine!
Thy light, O Sun of Righteousness and Grace!
That shows God's writing on this heart of mine,
And lifts on woe's dark sea the Father's face.
Thy light, O Sun of Righteousness and Grace!
That shows God's writing on this heart of mine,
And lifts on woe's dark sea the Father's face.
OUR POET.
The heavens are brightening! what a shining band
In these last days from mortal sight have gone;
In solemn, swift procession passing on
To take their places in the Silent Land!
In these last days from mortal sight have gone;
In solemn, swift procession passing on
To take their places in the Silent Land!
O white-winged fleet of souls! with joy we hail,
As through the dusk we gaze the waters o'er,
Gleaming beside yon calm, eternal shore,
The welcome signal of each snowy sail!
As through the dusk we gaze the waters o'er,
Gleaming beside yon calm, eternal shore,
The welcome signal of each snowy sail!
Ye, too, have reached at last the Port of Peace;
No more on Time's tempestuous waters tossed,
With the vast throng, before you, safely crossed,
Your anchors fall where storm and turmoil cease!
No more on Time's tempestuous waters tossed,
With the vast throng, before you, safely crossed,
Your anchors fall where storm and turmoil cease!
And what new stars, new constellations, glow,
Piercing the shadows of our earthly night
With such a strange and yet familiar light,
Making our paths more heavenly here below?
Piercing the shadows of our earthly night
With such a strange and yet familiar light,
Making our paths more heavenly here below?
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And thy pure soul has joined the noble throng
Of our immortal ones who shine aloft
With steadfast, starry light, serene and soft,—
Truth's champions, Beauty's heralds, Priests of Song.
Of our immortal ones who shine aloft
With steadfast, starry light, serene and soft,—
Truth's champions, Beauty's heralds, Priests of Song.
Melodious minstrel! unto thee belong
The glowing praises by the Mantuan sung
In the sweet cadence of his tuneful tongue:
Poet Divine! (he said) to us thy song
The glowing praises by the Mantuan sung
In the sweet cadence of his tuneful tongue:
Poet Divine! (he said) to us thy song
Is grateful as the rivulet's murmuring tune
Is to the wayworn traveller when he sips
The gushing waters with his fevered lips,
Beneath the shade in summer's burning noon.
Is to the wayworn traveller when he sips
The gushing waters with his fevered lips,
Beneath the shade in summer's burning noon.
Such was our Poet; and where'er is heard
The clear, strong utterance of our mother-tongue,
Wherever English hymns or songs are sung,
His name and song are as a household word.
The clear, strong utterance of our mother-tongue,
Wherever English hymns or songs are sung,
His name and song are as a household word.
Who shall describe him? Can the artist's brush
Find colors to depict the light of day,
The breath of summer's morning to portray,
Or paint the twilight's or the midnight's hush?
Find colors to depict the light of day,
The breath of summer's morning to portray,
Or paint the twilight's or the midnight's hush?
His is the sunshine of the heart, the breath
Of a pure soul by heavenly love informed,
Of a large soul by human kindness warmed:
For such a heart, such soul, there is no death.
Of a pure soul by heavenly love informed,
Of a large soul by human kindness warmed:
For such a heart, such soul, there is no death.
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A REQUIEM.
The music of the joyous bells,
That ring to welcome Christmas in,
And echo to the song that tells
The victory over death and sin,
That ring to welcome Christmas in,
And echo to the song that tells
The victory over death and sin,
Had scarcely ceased the glad acclaim,
In memory of that blessed birth,
When Death, the dark-robed angel, came
To call her from the woes of earth,—
In memory of that blessed birth,
When Death, the dark-robed angel, came
To call her from the woes of earth,—
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Came, in the stillness of the night,
With silent step and healing hand,
To lead her way through gloom to light,
The glory of the heavenly land.
With silent step and healing hand,
To lead her way through gloom to light,
The glory of the heavenly land.
He led her home, whose lamp of love
No wintry flood can quench or dim;
Now, in His glorious house above,
Her rescued spirit dwells with Him.
No wintry flood can quench or dim;
Now, in His glorious house above,
Her rescued spirit dwells with Him.
Send out, O bells, your gladsome voice!
The morning breaks, the shadows flee!
Rise up, sad hearts,—rejoice! rejoice!
Smile through your tears,—a soul is free!
The morning breaks, the shadows flee!
Rise up, sad hearts,—rejoice! rejoice!
Smile through your tears,—a soul is free!
Dec. 25, 1870.
A MEMORY.
As, year by year, pale autumn's leaves
Breathe requiems by his native shore,
A spirit's voice is heard, that grieves
For him whose form returns no more.
Breathe requiems by his native shore,
A spirit's voice is heard, that grieves
For him whose form returns no more.
As, year by year, bright autumn days
Come down from God's transparent skies,
A spirit's voice gives grateful praise
For him whose memory never dies.
Come down from God's transparent skies,
A spirit's voice gives grateful praise
For him whose memory never dies.
| Poems, original and translated | |