Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

To no soul-inspiring strains
Tune I now my lyre.
No enthusiastic theme
Calls forth poetic fire.
The subject I have taken
A poet seldom chooses,
Yet not all despairingly
I now convoke the Muses.
I breathe no tale of Fiction—no scene from Fairy Land,
Yet not devoid of interest is the busy human Hand.

Its little nerves, how finely strung, how delicate they are,
And yet, not sensitive enough our happiness to mar;
Think—had they been less exquisite much pleasure had been lost,
And many useful little deeds much trouble would have cost;
And had they been more exquisite, what anguish we should find
In many substances we touch, which now we do not mind.

And who would think, when gazing on an infant's little hand,
That 'neath its covering were streams true as e'er flowed on land.
So countless are the rivulets that from the heart are sent,
The slightest cambric needle wound will give the life-wave vent.
And upward through the tiny breach the pure drop wends its way,
Till on the surface fair it stands, and blushes at the day.
Oh! how many are these little rills, and yet, such is their size,
That most of them are not discerned by the most piercing eyes.
In ceaseless silence, on—on—on—the warm life-current flows,
Invigorating, strengthening, refreshing as it goes.

How well adapted to our use is each and every part,
Each prompting ready to obey of soul and mind and heart;
Propelled by mighty intellects with power and wisdom fraught,
What wonders in our little world its agency has wrought.

Cast now thine eye through centuries that long, long since have fled,
Through lapse of ages that have passed o'er earth's unnumbered dead,
Down the dim vista of the Past, in bold relief still stand
Countless mementoes of the skill of this all-wondrous Hand.

Egyptian pyramids, what vast extent
And durability are therein blent,
Of height stupendous, and amazing base,
They stand in sullen grandeur on the face
Of the green earth—laugh at each paltry cause
That ruins nations and overthrows their laws;
Mock at the ruins of a prostrate world,
Nor heed the darts that time has at them hurled;
Outline the glory of their mother state,
And scorn the power of the “vulgar great,”
Whence sprang this massive wonder of all lands—
From hosts of wondrous, wonder-working Hands.

Lo! on the plains of Rephidim the battle banners wave,
Thousands of men assemble there to find—a nameless grave.

The sons of Amalek are there, a brave and prosperous race,
And Israel's children, too, are there, of slow and feeble pace;
Weakened by bondage, and fatigued with march severe and long,
How dare they cope with Amalek, the brave, the proud, the strong?
Ah! One was there who oft had said, “I am thy sure Defence,”
And He had bid them there to stand, and who should drive them thence?
And now that chosen few stand forth, strong in Jehovah's might,
Nor quail before those hostile bands, nor tremble at the sight;
With faith unwavering, hope as strong, and confidence in God,
They upward turn their wistful eyes toward Heaven, his high Abode.
All patiently they wait the sign from his Eternal Throne,
By which to conquer and to feel that they are not alone.
And now an impulse strikes each breast, and all turn as one man
To where, upon a small hill-top, their two deliverers stand.
This is the sign that God has given, while Moses lifts his Hands.

Then Israel's children shall prevail against the hostile bands;
But if through weakness or through fear his Hands should droop and fall,
The sons of Amalek shall be the conquerors of all.

Now hear the clash of war-like arms, the rush of many feet,
As the two battling armies in fierce contention meet.
Now Israel's children turn their eyes to where their Moses stands,
And hope springs up afresh, for Hur and Aaron stay his Hands.
And now the bright and glorious sun is sinking in the west,
And the fatigued belligerents are glad to stop and rest.
Who come off conquerors in the strife, the many or the few?
The latter—God had promised them, and he to them was true.
Invincibly, courageously, effectually they fought,
“They paled not, they quailed not,” for Moses' Hands drooped not.

But we will dwell no longer on Time's past, distant page,
For in the nineteenth century—e'en in the present age—

I think we'll find a useful thing has been this little Hand,
To ever busy, ever eager, ever restless man.

Cheerily, cheerily,
Onward they go;
Merrily, merrily,
High and the low;
New England's famed city
Is teeming with life,
Her streets and her Common
With interest rife.
The warm sun is flinging
His brightest beams down,
And happy the faces
Now blooming around.
And happy the cause
That assembled them there,
Those faces so manly,
And faces so fair.
To one common focus
Swells the eager life-tide,
The oasis of Boston,
Her joy and her pride.
But the rude hand of man
Its quiet has broke,
Disturbed its fair waters
With merciless stroke.

Full five and twenty years ago
A citizen alone
Sat, and his meditations took
A melancholy tone—
For water, water, was the cry
That ever met his ear,
Disease and danger stalked abroad
For want of water clear.
The liquid that men drank,
It could not honored be
With the name of that which ever
To all men should be free—
Water, that richest blessing,
That boon of priceless worth,
Given unto the dwellers
In this, our fallen earth.
He thought of many a scheme
By which relief to bring,
And Hope around his soul
A syren song did sing.
On that autumnal morn,
That bright October day,
The citizen of whom we spoke
Was gayest of the gay.

For the scheme that he invented, so many bygone years,
Had reached its full fruition, and all his hopes and fears

Were scattered like the mists before the rising sun,
And all the city blessed him for the good that he had done.

Immense were the endeavors that Boston's sons had made,
Large basins had been formed and channels had been laid;
A fountain was to play upon the Common fair,
And rivers, lakes, and channels, all terminated there.

And now the time was come, the people gathered round,
And the breezes bore away a low and whispering sound.
And now a powerful voice was heard above the humming din,
“Citizens, if it be your mind the water to let in,
Please to say Ay!” and then arose as it would rend the sky,
From that immense assembled throng, one long tremendous “Ay.”
Slowly at first, then faster, rushed the water, bold and free,
And from that soul-inspired crowd there went up “three times three.”
What caused the fountain there to play so sweetly in its pride,
And from Cochituate's bosom sent the welcome crystal tide?

Not the lone citizen who sat with brow perplexed with thought,
He did not wish to do the work, it was the plan he sought.
He might have sat there in his room
And pondered until now,
But to his cogitations
The rivers would not bow.
What moved from their quiescent state
The waters of Cochituate,
And sent its glad, refreshing streams throughout the thirsty land?
The skill of many a wondrous and wonder-working Hand.
There is a Hand that guides us,
Life's tangled mazes through;
Oh, may that Hand be ever
A potent guide to you.
And when in peace and plenty,
All happily you stand,
Forget not that these favors
Come from a Father's Hand.

Jan. 13, 1849.