Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton collected and arranged by H. Augusta Dodge |
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HAMILTON
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 | Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton |  |
HAMILTON
Written by Request, for the Celebration of the 100th Birthday of the Town, June 21, 1893
Up from his sweet-scented islands, his soul with genius aflame,
Welding his life to the Nation's, radiant young Hamilton came—
Our Infanta saw him and loved him and named herself with his name.
Welding his life to the Nation's, radiant young Hamilton came—
Our Infanta saw him and loved him and named herself with his name.
Blessèd the Sponsors, our fathers, their wagon thus hitched to a Star.
No Frenchville, South Ipswich, or Hogtown, but, ringing afield and afar,
Hamilton—pride of the people wherever patriots are.
No Frenchville, South Ipswich, or Hogtown, but, ringing afield and afar,
Hamilton—pride of the people wherever patriots are.
Following a lofty Leader—priest, scholar, and statesman in one,
Resting now in yon churchyard from his labor under the Sun,
While a Nation reaps the reward of his strenuous work well done;—
Resting now in yon churchyard from his labor under the Sun,
While a Nation reaps the reward of his strenuous work well done;—
222
Thus to the Man of the South our Men of the North gave greeting;
Jura calling to Alps, Hero with Hero meeting!
Alas! for the strong laid low! Alas! for the glory fleeting!
Jura calling to Alps, Hero with Hero meeting!
Alas! for the strong laid low! Alas! for the glory fleeting!
Envy and malice found him—Hamilton, high of heart;—
The service of manhood bound him—so seemed—to the weaker part.
He looked in the face of death, but hid the envenomed dart.
The service of manhood bound him—so seemed—to the weaker part.
He looked in the face of death, but hid the envenomed dart.
Softly he stole to the chamber where slumbering innocence lay;
Soft to his own pressed the child's soft cheek from whom he must part that day;—
“Our Father which art in Heaven,” the little one heard him say—
Soft to his own pressed the child's soft cheek from whom he must part that day;—
“Our Father which art in Heaven,” the little one heard him say—
Then fronted the bitter bullet—a Nation's heart was riven;
Never a sin was sinned, with so little to be forgiven!
Never a sin was sinned, so like to the virtues of Heaven!
Never a sin was sinned, with so little to be forgiven!
Never a sin was sinned, so like to the virtues of Heaven!
223
Mothers, teaching your children to prattle their evening prayers—
Devotion as dear to God, 't may appear, as the panoplied priest's who bears
Heaven's high commands in his lifted hands on the great world's altar stairs;—
Devotion as dear to God, 't may appear, as the panoplied priest's who bears
Heaven's high commands in his lifted hands on the great world's altar stairs;—
Join to the broken “Our Father” of the voices sweet and low
A thought of him who breathed it in his deathly stress of woe,
For him a prayer whose name we wear since a hundred years ago!
A thought of him who breathed it in his deathly stress of woe,
For him a prayer whose name we wear since a hundred years ago!
Our lady sits on her hills, smiling across to the sea;
Our Mother smiles down on her children toiling at harvests to be;
But she holds evermore her Ideal, fearless, discerning, and free.
Our Mother smiles down on her children toiling at harvests to be;
But she holds evermore her Ideal, fearless, discerning, and free.
Strangers have idly thought her rustic spirit was tame;
With futile treasures have sought to purchase her priceless name!
What are silver and gold to lay in the scales with that cherished fame?
With futile treasures have sought to purchase her priceless name!
What are silver and gold to lay in the scales with that cherished fame?
224
Our Lady looks wistfully West where the Sun sets his golden bar,
If, haply, that glory of glow be the Golden Gates ajar
To the Heaven of heavens beyond, where the Vanished and Glorious are!
If, haply, that glory of glow be the Golden Gates ajar
To the Heaven of heavens beyond, where the Vanished and Glorious are!
And it's oh! to be true to the faithful and few
Whose unlaureled lives led the last Avatar;
To the simple and brave who have gone to the grave,
But our wagon made fast to a Star!
Whose unlaureled lives led the last Avatar;
To the simple and brave who have gone to the grave,
But our wagon made fast to a Star!
| Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton | |