Poems of home and country :: :: University of Virginia Library

All Nature sings wildly the song of the free;
The red, white, and blue float o'er land and o'er sea,—
The white, in each billow that breaks on the shore;
The blue, in the arching that canopies o'er
The land of our birth, in its glory outspread;
And sunset dyes deepen and glow into red.
Day fades into night, and the red stripe retires;
But stars, o'er the blue, light their sentinel fires.
And though night be gloomy, with clouds overspread,
Each star holds its place in the field overhead;
When scatter the clouds, and the tempest is through,
We count every star in the field of the blue.

318

FLOWERS.

Breaths from the upper world; Eden revived;
God's smiles on earth, made visible to men;
Light, prisoned up in form; honey, enhived;
Fair Paradise, once lost, restored again.

Beauty and love, enshrined in bell and cup;
Earth's innocents, that climb around our bowers;
Meek, brilliant eyes, that look so sweetly up,
Like raindrops, sparkling after summer showers.

Jewels to earth, as stars are to the skies,
Polished and set, by more than human skill;
Lessons that speak, though silent, to the eyes,—
Vocal in vale and plain, on ridge and hill.

Volumes of truth, that speak the mighty God,
Wise, loving, pitying, glorious, ever near,
That bid us trust the ever great and good,
Whose mercy wakes and crowns the rolling year.

Symbols of man's short life, too frail to stay;
Living, to die,—a sweet, but passing story;
Dying, to live when spring renews its day,—
The precious emblems of immortal glory.

319

FLOWERS IN WINTER.

Fair flowers that bloom so richly,
As if the summer's breath
Were wafted o'er their birthplace,
And not the chill of death!
I hail the joyful emblem,—
Fit cheer for hours of gloom,—
Earth has its wintry trials,
But 't is not all a tomb.

I listen in the evening
To the sighing of the gale;
I watch the heaping snowdrifts,
And hear the rattling hail;
And I think, with grateful spirit,
What a glorious God is ours,
Who is mighty in the tempest,
And gentle in the flowers.

The piercing blasts are blowing;
But every smiling cup
Breathes forth such charming fragrance,
And looks so sweetly up,
I forget the shortened daylight,
And the wintry chill and gloom,
And heaven seems hovering near me,
With its everlasting bloom.

And I see amid the darkness
Of the path that mortals tread,
In the land of grief and partings,
Of the mourning and the dead,

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How God, with loving mercy,
Softening the painful blow,
Leaves joy, to gild our sorrow,
Like flowers in time of snow.

The cherished forms that faltered,
And we laid them down to rest,
In their still retreats are sleeping,
With the peace of Jesus blest;
Like the blossom from the tuber,
Like the harvest from the grain,
They will spring,—the time approaches,—
To their lovely life again.

They are living still in beauty,
Where the soft airs ever last,
Where they never feel the fury
Of the winter's bitter blast;
Nor frosts, with chilling fingers,
Nor griefs, with scalding tear,
Where summer ever lingers,
And flowers bloom all the year.

A SONG OF SPRING.

Welcome, the opening buds of spring;
Welcome, the dew and rain;
Welcome, the merry birds that sing;
Welcome, the bursting grain.

Welcome, the balmy airs that breathe,
The rainbows, and the showers;
Welcome, the early flowers that wreathe
Their beauty round our bowers.

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Wild from a thousand warbling throats
Melodious music rings;
Matin and vesper swells and floats,—
Nature's sweet offerings.

Each bird that soars, each bud that breaks
In beauty from its cell,
Tuneful, or still, one accent wakes,—
“God has done all things well.”

Let tree and wood, let vale and hill,
Swell the sweet, grateful song,
And wave, and rock, and rippling rill,
The echoing strain prolong.

THE LITTLE CRICKET.

You sweet little cricket,
Amid the night dew,
While the moon shines so brightly,
I'll listen to you.
I love your dull chirping,
Your shrill monotone;
You soothe, with your music,
This bosom so lone.

Your voice, like the breezes
That mournfully play,
When the red leaves of autumn
Look gaudy and gay,
Tells of joys now departed,
No more to return,
Of summer hopes blasted,
Of fair flowers torn.

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Sweet cricket, thy music
Will quickly be still,
When the tempests of winter
Roar loud on the hill;
But I go when the storm comes,
Where all my friends dwell,—
No more shall my heart say
To gladness farewell!

July 25, 1831.

WILD STRAWBERRIES.

In the thick and grassy wood,
Where the sunny streaks are breaking,
And the birds their songs are waking,
Where the mossy flowers repose,
There the pretty strawberry grows.

Pretty strawberry, fresh and sweet,
Say who made your cheek so shining,
Like the crimson sun declining,
And who made your pleasant smell,—
Tell me, pretty strawberry, tell?

It was God who made you so;
God, your ruddy color brightens,
And your charming odor heightens.
Leafy pines, and firs so straight,
Whisper, “Children, God is great.”

323

THE CANARY AT SEA.

[_]

On the Cunard Steamer Abyssinia, far from land, a canary bird made its home as contentedly as if in its native forest. The poet has given to the incident that spiritual lesson which has marked his lifework as a lover of Nature, in close companionship with Nature's Master, the Creator of all.

Sweet wanderer o'er the sea,
Where wild winds moan,
And billowy waves, like pulses, beat
Their monotone,—
How tread thy little feet, so gay,
Devoid of fear?
How is thy heart so brave and bold,—
A stranger here?

The summer bloom, the verdant fields,
Are far away;
No leafy bower, no warbled tone,
Invites thy stay.
Sea here, sea there, sea everywhere,
Wave chasing wave,—
In peril's hour, O, who has power
To shield or save?

Enough for thee, the strong-rigged bark,
In calm and storm,
Will shelter and protect from harm
Thy tiny form;
Cling to the refuge, and be safe
From wave and gale,
And o'er the ocean's boundless waste
Securely sail.

324

Wanderers o'er life's uncertain course,—
A dangerous sea,—
Our only refuge, Son of God,
We find in Thee;
Led captive by no lower aim,
To Thee we cling,
And rest in perfect faith and hope
Beneath Thy wing.

Sweet, simple bird, of watchful eye
And lithest limb,
Thy trust is in this gallant ship;
But ours, in Him.
Thy hope may founder through some leak,
Or stormy gale;
Ours, anchored to the throne of God,
Can never fail.

October 24, 1880.

TREE-PLANTING, OR ARBOR DAY.

Joy for the sturdy trees,
Fanned by each fragrant breeze,
Lovely they stand.
The song-birds o'er them trill;
They shade each tinkling rill;
They crown each swelling hill,
Lowly or grand.

Plant them by stream and way,
Plant them where children play,
And toilers rest;

325

In every verdant vale,
On every sunny swale;—
Whether to grow or fail,
God knoweth best.

Select the strong, the fair;
Plant them with earnest care,—
No toil is vain;
Plant in a fitter place,
Where, like a lovely face
Set in some sweeter grace,
Change may prove gain.

God will His blessing send;
All things on Him depend,—
His loving care
Clings to each leaf and flower,
Like ivy to its tower,—
His presence and His power
Are everywhere.

326

THE ELOQUENCE OF NATURE.

Go ye, and read at length the mystic lore
Where some Niagara's dark waters roar.
Draw nearer; the tremble at the amazing plan;
See how they scorn the pygmy works of man.
Admire the swelling, grand, foreboding hush,
Where they are gathering for the awful rush
That bears them thundering down the dizzy steep,
To mingle, boiling, in the foamy deep.
List to the rumbling of the mighty floods,—
Their eloquence is but the type of God's;
Or, note the tempest's wrath, the lightning's glare,
The rainbow's image on the cloudy air,—
Bright, beautiful, divine, too fair to stay,
Where all created beauty fades away.
Think how the whirlwind's wrath, the thunder's pride,
Terrific, echoing from the mountain's side—
Suns, planets, comets, on their pathway rolled,
Like brilliant, burning, moving orbs of gold;
The summer's radiant glow, mild autumn's ray,—
All, all, the great Creator's might display.
Each flower that sheds its fragrance on the air
Shows some divinest signet fastened there;
Exalts the soul above this meanest clod,
And bids us see and hear a present God,
Whose voice of majesty no words confine,—
An eloquence eternal, deep, divine.

327

RUSTIC SCENES.

FROM THE GERMAN.

MY HUMBLE HOME.

Humble is my little cottage;
Yet it is the seat of bliss.
Anger never dwells among us,
Only peace and happiness;
Kindness there you always see,
And the sweetest harmony.

PLEASURES OF NATURE.

How sweet 'tis to play,
In the green fields in May,
Beneath the tall trees,
Or after school hours,
To pluck the sweet flowers,
And feel the fresh breeze!

How pleasant to look
In the murmuring brook,
And hear its soft sound!
How happy are we!
How nimble and free,
We skip o'er the ground!

328

Now gone is the light;
Now comes the dark night;
All still is the vale.
We'll go to our rest,
Nor wake till redbreast,
Renews his soft tale.

THE PLEASURES OF INNOCENCE.

Bliss is hovering, smiling, everywhere,—
Hovering o'er the verdant mountain,
Smiling in the glassy fountain;
Bliss is hovering, smiling, everywhere.

Tender love is active everywhere,—
Active in the shady bower,
In the little modest flower;
Tender love is active everywhere.

Innocence unseen is ever near;
In the tall tree-top it lingers,
In the nest of feathered singers,—
Innocence unseen is ever near.

Pleasure echoes, echoes far and near;
From the green bank decked with flowers,
Sunny hills, and pleasant bowers,—
Pleasure echoes, echoes far and near.

Up and weave us now a flowery crown;
See the blossoms all unfolding,
Each its beauteous station holding,—
Up and weave us now a flowery crown.

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Go ye forth and join the May-day throng;
Sings the cuckoo by the river,
In the breeze the young leaves quiver,—
Go ye forth and join the May-day throng.

MY DELIGHT.

Through the grassy fields to run,
And to see the pleasant sun,
And soft twilight;
Through the meadow and the grove,
With my nimble feet to rove,—
Is my delight.

From the lofty hill to view,
The fair sky so bright and blue,
And clouds of white;
And some lovely song to sing,
While I hear the echo ring,—
Is my delight.

When so happy and so gay,
Through the flowery meads I stray,
All fair and bright,
There to pluck a rose for you,
Bright and sparkling with the dew,
Is my delight.

In the bower of shady trees,
Shaken by the gentle breeze,
By morning light,
Little Robin there to hear,
Singing praises without fear,
Is my delight.

330

ON WAKING IN THE MORNING.

Arouse up, ye sleepers, the morning has come!
The sun has awakened the insects' soft hum;
The sheep to the fields go,
The men to the meadow,
And all to their labor till daylight grows low.

Oh, lose not the brightness of morning's young beams;
The beauties of Nature are sweeter than dreams.
Your downy bed leaving,
Go forth till the evening
Its fragrant air breathes, and the night-warblers sing.

THE RAIN.

See, the rain is falling
On the mountain's side;
From the clouds dispensing
Blessings far and wide!
How the cooling shower
Brightens every flower,
Makes the sun-parched land
With fresh blooms expand.

Now the rain is over,
See the painted bow,
O'er the distant hilltop,
All its colors show.
God is ever faithful;
Let us all be grateful,
For the rain and dew,
And the cloudless blue.

331

PRAYER BEFORE SCHOOL.

For our life, so young and pleasing,
Father, we
Sing to Thee
Praises never ceasing.

Let us, filled with pious feeling,
Waked from rest,
Neatly drest,
Humbly now be kneeling.

Give us, Lord, a zeal for learning;
Mercy we
Seek from Thee;
Make our minds discerning.

May we, through the love of Jesus,
Feel Thy power,
Every hour,
From sin to release us.

THE SPRING IS COME.

The spring is come! and vales and mountains
Are clothed anew in lovely green,
And purling streams and mossy fountains,
And blooming flowers adorn the scene;
Oh, listen to the insect hum,—
The spring, the spring is come!

332

The spring is come! New life is gleaming,
In the fresh earth and brilliant sky;
The warm sun on the earth is beaming;
And heaven is full of melody.
And listen to the insect hum,—
The spring, the spring is come!

The spring is come! Away with dulness!
Go to the rich and verdant fields;
While morning glows in all its fulness,
Go taste the joys the spring-time yields,
And listen to the insect hum,—
The spring, the spring is come!

THE GARDEN.

Come, children, and now to the garden we'll go,
Where cowslips and snow-drops and buttercups grow.

The blossoms we'll pluck with a childish delight,
And get us a bunch of the red and the white.

We'll plant the dark roots, the young shoots we'll stick down,
To weave us next May-day a flowery crown.

Again at our school, when the dear bell shall ring,
Our tasks we will learn and our songs we will sing.

333

SPRING FLOWERS.

Kind, the spring appears;
Softest smiles it wears.
Lovely flowers are springing;
Happy birds are singing,
On the fair green trees,
Waving in the breeze.

Blooming on the ground,
Many flowers are found;
But so modest keeping,
On the green banks sleeping,
By the rivulet,
Seek the violet.

How it fills the air,
With its fragrance there!
Lovely, little flower!
Bending to the shower,
May we learn of thee
Sweet humility.

334

THE THREE FLOWERS.

There bloom three young flowers, so sweet and fair,
In Nature's wild, flourishing garden,
On mountains and hillsides, in forests and vales,
As if playing watcher and warden;
Your beauties, sweet flowers, are rich and divine;
They bloom in the field; in the nosegay they shine.

The buttercup, first, all spring-time so bright,
Like glittering beads, strung in order;
Its blossoms like dew-drops, the daughters of night,
Gem the fields, and the green roadsides border;
Wherever its clear yellow flowers you see,
Its honey-cup swells with the food of the bee.

The violet, next, in its liveliest blue,
In green, clasping leaflets half-covered,
The spring-meadow fills with its fragrant perfume,
Where the red-breast, by morning-light, hovered;
The image of mildness and modesty, too,
Is the violet-flower, of heavenly hue.

And then, where the sparkling fountain gleams,
Beneath the noon-sunlight so splendid,
The flower-de-luce, with its triple bell, smiles,
Till the days of the spring-time are ended;
'T is sacred to friendship and sacred to love,
The emblem of union in heaven above.

335

A SONG IN THE WOODS.

In the cool and leafy grove,
Hand in hand we love to rove,
While in every shady tree,
Birds tune up their melody;
Let us join their happy song,
And the harmony prolong.

Of the mighty oaks we'll sing,
And the flowers that near them spring;
Of the trees above our head,
And the grass on which we tread;
Of the little verdant hills,
Purling brooks, and running rills.

Listen how the rustling leaves,
Ever quivering in the breeze,
Send forth each a separate sound
To the echoing woods around,—
Sounds of praise to Him who made
Pine-clad hills and forest-glade.

See around the brilliant flowers,
Freshened by the evening showers,
Bright by morning, bright by night,
When comes, and when fades, the light
In the cool and leafy grove,
Hand in hand we love to rove.

336

THE HUNTSMAN'S SONG.

Trarah! Trarah!
The morning hoar-frost on the cold earth glistens;
The bleak wind whistles so fresh and cold,
The huntsman arouses and listens;
The horn is winding so clear and shrill,
It calls him abroad to the sunny hill;
Trarah! Trarah!
The sunny hill,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!

Trarah! Trarah!
The winter's breeze makes strong his very marrow.
Up fly the birds—and his eye is clear;
He seizes the sharp gleaming arrow,
And scours the hillside where waved the corn,
Led on by the voice of the hunting-horn.
Trarah! Trarah!
The hunting-horn,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!

Trarah! Trarah!
It calls away,—the sound of sport and pleasure.
The hounds are ready; away we go!
The evening our frolic shall measure.
The horn is winding; the game is here;
And the echo salutes us far and near,—
Trarah! Trarah!
The game is here;
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!

337

INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.

The winter winds are gone;
Fresh dews and summer showers,
Green grass and blooming flowers,
Brighten the pleasant lawn.

Come, see the springing corn;
Come, hear the soft birds singing;
Come, hear their music ringing
At crimson eve and morn.

Come to the land of song,—
The land of sweetest fragrance
Where pleasure throws its radiance,
And music floats along.

Up to the hill-tops come,
Where bloom the tasselled flowers,
And spring, with freshened flowers,
Raises its insect hum.

THE LITTLE WEAVER.

I am a little weaver, and pleasant are my days;
My little wheel keeps whirling, and round me kitty plays.
My life so calm and happy, so bright and active is,
There is no joy I wish for to crown my cup of bliss.

338

My songs are never silent but in the peaceful night;
I always rise to labor when day is growing light;
But though I am so busy, I'm sure I do not care;
They rather should be pitied, who always idle are.

And while my wheel keeps whirling, the hours they seem not long;
I feel all day so happy, so lively is my song.
My work, it never wearies, but gives me health, you see;
And I am always cheerful,—oh, don't you envy me?

I care not for the dainties and all the fancy things,
Which from beyond the ocean the rich man's vessel brings;
My turnips and potatoes I am content to eat;
Nor will I ever murmur for want of food more sweet.

THE LITTLE STAR.

A star shines in the heavens,
With soft and tender light;
How pleasant is its radiance!
'T is gone—and now 't is bright.

I knew the place, at evening,
Where over me it stood,
Where doves all day were cooing,
Over the thick green wood.

I looked to see it twinkle,
Up in the brilliant blue;
For to its mighty station,
It soon would come, I knew.

339

OUR PLEASANT VILLAGE.

Oh, see how bright and sweetly shines
Our village in the evening,
While crimson clouds and streaks of gold
Their fairy forms are weaving!
How peaceful is the dewy air!
No place on earth is half so fair.

Look, how the polished window-panes
The parting sunbeams lighten;
And autumn's scarlet-colored leaves,
Touched by the red rays, brighten.
Oh, see our pretty village there!
No place on earth is half so fair.

And now the burning sun is gone;
It only tips the towers
That rise above the temple roof;
And now the darkness lowers.
But still our village glimmers there;
No place on earth is half so fair.

340

SALUTATION TO THE VILLAGE.

Little vale, with fairy meadows!
Trees, that spread your leafy hands!
Flowers, clothed in softest beauty,
Lovelier than eastern lands!
Village! home of every treasure,
Thee we sing in strains of pleasure;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!

How thy pleasant evening-shadows
Make our troubled passions cease;
And they thy bright and purling rivers
Fill our souls with hallowed peace.
Village! tender thoughts promoting,
Like the clouds in azure floating;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!

In thy green and sunny pathways,
Near thy bright and glassy streams,
Free from care we love to wander,
Cheered by summer's radiant beams:
Scenes of sweetest recollection,
Sacred to the soul's reflection,
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!

341

FAREWELL TO THE VILLAGE.

Silent vale! where love and pleasure
Ever round our cottage flowed;
Beauteous as the western evening,
Lovely as the sunlit cloud;
Peaceful as the vesper bell,—
Thee we bid a long farewell.
Fare thee well! Fare thee well!

Fare ye well, ye ancient beeches,
Which have shielded oft our head;
Still be green, ye sunny meadows;
Fields with brightest flowers bespread,—
Scenes, where oft the reapers' song
Swelled in echoes sweet and strong.
All farewell! All farewell!

Pleasant village! oft thy beauties
Shall revive within our breast,
And the lovely recollection
Soothe, like visits from the blest.
Often to our tearful eyes
Shall thy cherished image rise.
Fare thee well! Fare thee well!

342

HAIL, BETHLEHEM'S STAR!

The gloomy night is fleeing fast,
The morning star appears;
Its glowing rays a splendor cast
On morning's dewy tears.
Come, let us join in cheerful praises,
While Nature her sweet pæan raises;
The morning star appears.

Fair star! thy charms have ne'er declined
Since first thy beams were given,—
Like golden chains that firmly bind
The distant earth and heaven.
Oh, praise the Lord, as on the morning
When angels sang the lovely dawning
Of Bethlehem's star in heaven!

Let thousand voices swell the strain;
Let praises loudly ring;
Let melody the soul enchain,
And all creation sing.
Hail, Bethlehem's star, thy light, abiding,
Thro' stormy life our path still guiding,
To heaven our feet shall bring.

343

NATIVE LAND, SO LOVELY.

Evening winds are breathing,
Through the forest green;
Crimson clouds are wreathing,
In the sky, serene.

Trees, so tall and branching,
Relics of the past,
In the soft breeze waving,
Roaring in the blast,

Bloom in future ages,
Bloom in Freedom's light;
Though the tempest rages,
Stand in all your might.

Native land, so lovely,
Bright thy beauties are;
Long may noon beam o'er thee,
Let thy night be far.

On thy rising glories,
Let the clear light glow,
Clearer than the mid-day,
On the spotless snow.

344

SUMMER EVENING.

The summer evening
Bright wreaths is weaving,
Round vale and hill;
The dewy flowers
Perfume the bowers,
And all is still.

The moon shines brightly,
The birds rest lightly
Among the trees.
The reapers, singing,
Are homeward bringing
Their yellow sheaves.

Now day is over,
The little rover
Must be at rest.
Till purple morning
Awakes the dawning,
In glory drest.

345

VERSES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.

FREEDOM ADVANCES.

[_]

Written January 1, 1829, while a student in Harvard College, as “A Carrier's Address” for the “Christian Watchman,” under the conviction that civil and religious liberty had gained a new impulse in Europe and the East.

The zephyrs are hushed, and the storm winds are blowing;
The rude car of winter sweeps madly along;
The bright crystal streamlet no longer is flowing;
And the woodland has echoed the last warbled song:—
But seraphim bands all their lyres are waking;
The tempests are wafting a heavenly song;
The streams of salvation their barriers are breaking;
The heathenish nations their gods are forsaking,—
All earth is uniting the strain to prolong!

I slept,—and thick darkness around me was stealing;
The light of the gospel had faded away;
And lordly oppression her sceptre was wielding,—
A merciless tyrant, a merciless sway!
I woke,—and around me the dark clouds were flying;
A fair star had risen to lead on the day;
The mourners in Zion no longer were sighing,—
But wreaths of salvation her daughters were twining,
And onward advanced the triumphal array!

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Thus, thus wakes the morn,—the mists are retreating;
The noon-day approaches beyond the blue wave.
Round Heaven's fair banners the nations are meeting,—
The poor and unlearned, the rich and the brave;
The far distant gun of the Moslem is rolling.
The tyrant is fallen,—all dark is his grave!
The deep, heavy knell of oppression is tolling,
And religion beams forth, every passion controlling.
Peace, peace to the mourners and joy to the slave!

And, hark! the shrill trump of the gospel is sounding;
The angel in heaven pursues his career;
The heart of the widow with gladness is bounding;
And the fatherless child weeps the penitent's tear.
And thou—wilt thou aid in the work of salvation,—
Give thy bread to the hungry; the heart-broken cheer?
Wilt thou send the blest story from nation to nation,
And improve the brief day of thy mortal probation?
Then, well cries the Watchman,—A Happy New Year!

WOMAN.

[_]

Read at a social gathering in Boston, where a Christian woman very acceptably occupied the chair, as presiding officer.

What were this globe, with mountain, plain, and wood,
Grand in their gorgeousness, and great as good,
The mighty ocean with its ceaseless flow,
Expansive sky above and sea below,—
Were all this grandeur in the world alone,
Without a veil of beauty o'er it thrown,

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As o'er the trellis creeps the slender vine,
As o'er old ruins verdant ivies twine,
As near the crags, the humble wild flower sleeps,
Or gentle ripples smile on ocean deeps?

What were the storm, that darkens all the air,
When thunders roll and flashing lightnings glare?
Did not, with voice of love, God's matchless will
Quell the wild tumult, and say, “Peace, be still!”
And bid the rainbow with its lovely form
Wreathe by its light the background of the storm?

The vale is sweeter, for the o'er-hanging hill;
The beauty shows the grandeur, grander still.
What were this hour of joy and festive cheer,
Though faces meet us which our hearts revere;
What were this scene, brilliant with church and state,—
If, met in conclave, for some grave debate,
Man sat, alone, sombre and grave and wise,
Like old gnarled oak beneath the breezy skies?

We love the strength that rules, the light that guides,
The higher will that judges and decides,—
Blessed be God!—we own the chairman's power;
But still, to-night, 't is woman rules the hour.

348

WOMAN, A “SIDE-ISSUE.”

[_]

Read at the Social Union, Boston, October 26, 1868.

It has been said, “Whatever be the beauty and charms of woman, let her not value herself too highly. For it is undeniable that, in the work of creation, man was the principal, and woman only a ‘side-issue.’”

Yes, a “side-issue,” so you say,
Like a self-vaunting Turk:
Woman was but an after-thought;
But man, God's noblest work.

But no side-issue here to-night,
As once in Eden's bowers;
For woman holds the highest place
In this fair feast of ours.

Creation's lords with lofty air
Their higher work fulfil;
But woman, in a gentler sphere,
Labors with loving will.

We boast our greatness, wisdom, wealth,
Proud of our rank as men;
But for our mothers, where had we,
Creation's lordlings, been?

When God resolved His chosen race
To pluck from Pharaoh's hand,
The ark that saved the infant chief
Was by a woman planned.

349

When Sisera's champions led the fight,
Armed with the warrior's mail,
He failed; and through his heathen head,
A woman drove the nail.

When Joshua sent to search the land
Where heathen banners waved,
No hostile hand could reach the spies
A woman's wit had saved.

The prophet near the brook lay hid,
By hungry ravens fed;
Till woman built his little room,
And feasted him with bread.

Weary and hungry, Jesus sat
At noon beside the well;
And listening ears absorbed each word
Of love that from Him fell.

Samaria's nobles, boastful, dreamed
Of worldly wit and lore;
A woman blessed His words that day;
A woman owned His power.

One meekly sat at Jesus' feet,
His gracious words to hear;
And one received Him, tired and faint,
With love and festal cheer,—

O blessed women, never shall
Their deeds forgotten be!
E'en the ascending Conqueror fixed
His gaze on Bethany.

350

With tearful eyes and loving heart,
Furnished with ointment sweet,
A woman bathed, perfumed, and kissed
The Saviour's sacred feet.

Who but a woman on His head
The precious fragrance strewed?
“Trouble her not,” the Master said,
“She hath done what she could.”

And, meanly, one his Lord betrayed
With cruelty inhuman;
And one denied His blessed name,—
Both men, but never woman.

Rudely the rough procession trod,
With smirk and shout and yell,
The pathway where the Son of God
Beneath His burden fell.

Where were the men? They in that hour
Hid, trembling and afraid;
Only the women near their Lord
Lingered and wept and prayed.

When, dying on the shameful cross,
In agony He hung,
The precious word “mother” was heard
Last lingering on His tongue.

Up, curious Peter! seek the place
Of the Great Captive's tomb;
Run, loving John, before the rays
Of morn the skies illume!

351

They rose, they ran; with joy they saw
The garb the Saviour wore,—
But women at the sacred spot
Had worshipped long before.

When first a church on Europe's soil
Like a new sunlight burst,
And grew apace, on its fair roll
A woman's name stood first.

When science would new worlds evoke,
Beyond the mighty sea,
Spain's nobles doubted if at all
Such wondrous things could be.

Men locked the treasury of state,
“No funds to spare to-day!”
She sold her jewelled rings to send
Columbus on his way.

Brave Isabella! she alone
Saw glimmerings in the skies;
America was sought and found,—
A woman's enterprise!

There sleeps upon a lonely isle,
Far o'er the southern wave,
The proto-martyr of our work,
The heathen world to save.

That silent sleeper's gentle name
Still breathes like sweet perfume;
The sacred dust of woman fills
That lonely, glorious tomb.

352

Where were our honored, martyred chief,
Who, through the stormy wave,
Safely conveyed the ship of state,
Patient and wise and brave;

Whose sun has set, whose star gone down,—
When shall we see such other?
But what had honored Lincoln been
But for his Christian mother?

And what were he whose deeds of might
On every banner flaunt,
But for the pious woman's name
Who made him U. S. Grant.

Talk of “side-issues,” if you please;
Cry “woman”—“Need n't heed her!”
But history and love reply,
“Oh, no, she is the leader.”

Not a “side-issue” here to-night,
As once in Eden's bowers;
But woman holds the highest place
At this fair feast of ours.

353

THE GOOD AND GREAT MAN.

[_]

Hymn for the Soldier's Corps of the G. A. R., Chicago, Ill., May 15, 1887.

Who is the truly good and great?
Who, worthy of the highest fame?
And who, among the sons of men,
Shall hold the most distinguished name?

The man whose heart and hands are pure;
Who rules his thoughts, who rules his will;
Resists temptation's fiercest flood,
Unsullied keeps his honor still;

Who heeds the cry of want and woe,
Who gently soothes the sufferer's pain;
Pities the tempted ones who fall,
And sets them on their feet again;

Who walks 'neath heaven's o'er-arching dome
Purely as angels' feet might tread;
And love and faith combine to weave
A glorious halo round his head;

Who, earnest, keeps, with reverent step,
The ways the pious fathers trod;
Who shuns the intoxicating cup,
And loves his country and his God,—

He shall enjoy the highest praise
To mortals due, to mortals given;
Be owned, an honor to his race,
And wear the crown of life in heaven.

354

DANGEROUS PRECOCITY.

Youths of few summers—boys, still dolts at school,
Leaping the rigors of parental rule—
Deem all control a bore, and vote it harsh;
Ape foreign style, and sport the curled mustache;
Plunge with a zest, in nonsense and in sin,—
Hair-oil without, and hair-brained skulls within:
The pomp, external, affluently shed,
Proclaims they have within an empty head.
How eloquently weakness tells its tale!
Like ships that tower aloft, with wind in every sail.

The gentle sex, grown wise as Nature's lords,
Must learn the magic of some mystic words
From learned juntos, and aspire to speak
Some hidden mystery, in classic Greek.
They wear the secret charm upon the breast,
Like evening's star upon the blushing west.
Too frank, too good, the luscious truth to hide,
They choose to wear the symbol all outside;
And when these blooming bowers of hope they leave,
Commit the secret to their sister Eve.

355

“A LITTLE UPPISH.”

“A little uppish,”—Well, it is
The style of modern days;
For young America delights
In such peculiar ways.

The boy escaped from female garb,
Aged just twenty moons,
Feels very “uppish,” when he sports
His boots and pantaloons.

The girl in hoops and waterfalls,
Just entering her “teens,”
Is “uppish,” as if born to sit
With duchesses and queens.

And when the child, become a bride,
Sits on the household throne,
Her dear liege lord she sometimes snubs,
Alas, too “uppish” grown.

May not a young and offshoot church
Be good as any other?
Oh, yes; when, “uppish” grown, she thinks
She's wiser than her mother.

Who wonders that the offshoot stands
With such rich grace endued?
She feels the thrill in all her veins
Of her strong mother's blood.

356

“A little uppish!” Gently speak,
'T is but a fault of youth;
And grace will cure it, wait a while,
Through the blest power of truth.

Thank God, such faults are but of earth!
Thank God, they pass away,
As clouds of night and gloom withdraw
Before the opening day!

Read at a Social Union, Springfield, Mass., when a young offshoot church was characterized, by Rev. Dr. G. B. Ide, pastor of the mother church, as “a little uppish.”

THESE MODERN TIMES.

Life in these modern days strange freaks assumes;
Old truth retires, and feeble falsehood comes;
Fiction and fancy, all the live-long day,
And airy nothings, are the things that pay.

The loudest, lightest, for the worthiest pass,—
As rise balloons, because their filled with gas.
Men scorn the wisdom of the hoary sage,
And eloquently boast this learned age:—

An age of shallow wit and weak pretence,
Whose greatest want is want of common sense;
The gaping crowd admires each changing scene,
As some new wonder,—for the crowd is green.

Fashions and follies bear the masses by,
And silks and ribbons, with their rainbow dye,
Or flutter in the air, a graceful show,
Or sweep the dusty thoroughfares below.

357

Along the street their gaudy pageants glide,
Gay as the butterflies of summertide,—
With equal beauty, equal lightness fraught,
As little burdened with the weight of thought.

Perchance, but spendthrifts on an empty purse;
Perchance, the victims, too, of something worse.
An eloquence of manner often tells,
Some things have naught but tongues, besides church bells.

September, 1838.

A MERRY HOUR.

[_]

A. E. Sloan, Esq., of Cincinnati, delivered a course of three lectures, entitled “Merry Hours.” In advance of the course he selected the names of several persons and things which would be incidentally introduced in the lectures, and requested Dr. Smith to write for him, for his use, the prelude to each lecture. The notice was very sudden; but the impromptu responses are given below, as illustrations of the versatility of the poet, in “Mirthful Moments.”

Humorous Fragments, No. 1.

Lend your ears, gentle friends, throw your business aside,
“Tom Pidger” is going to trot out “his bride;”
On my word, you shall learn, drawn true to the life,
'Mid the frolic and fun, what makes “a good wife;”
Or lawyer's, or “minister's,” even your own,—
(Aside) if your willing to yield her your throne.

If you 've done “Saratoga,” and drunk of its water,
On a trip with your wife, or your merry-tongued daughter;

358

If you've been at the seashore, where morals grow lax;
Or learned “early rising” from witty “J. Saxe,”—
I'll warrant you need, after such relaxation,
Some muscular fun, before your vocation
You ply, like an engine, through snow, sleet, and rain,
And buckle to labor and business again.
So smooth out the creases that furrow your brow,
While, juicy as apples just plucked from the bough,
I strive, gentle friends, to the best of my power,
To give, as per program, a right “merry hour.”

Humorous Fragments, No. 2.

If I should open here at once, and empty all my budget,
Like some rich mine of gold, condensed in one enormous nugget,—
Talk in one breath of courtship, love, and ardor patriotic,
Mixing, like old Egyptian priests, hieratic and demotic,—
Your sides would shake, your brain would ache amid the varied clatter,
And echoes ring from all the hall, “Good, sir, what is the matter?”

So, mindful of your ease, I choose to give you in detail,—
Just as your daily letters, friend, come one by one by mail,—
How “Mr. Winkle” sought “the springs” where wit and beauty fed;
And “Pickwick at the Ipswich Inn” once missed his way to bed;

359

And Wendell Holmes, the autocrat,—his wit put under ban,—
Resolved, “I never more shall dare be witty as I can.”
Perhaps, to try another strain, and prove its potent magic,
My rendering of “Clarence' Dream,” will give you a touch of tragic.
So here you have a program true,—not baseless as false rumor,—
Apply your ears and you shall hear “fragments of wit and humor.”

Humorous Fragments, No. 3.

The light and dark, the grave and gay, make up the round of life;
Pathetic scenes and mirthful hours,—now rest, now battle's strife.
Chiefly in merry mood my steps from scene to scene shall roam;
A tear may dampen on your lids for the “dear folks at home;”
You needs must hear how “Harry Fifth” manœuvred for “his wife;”
And roguish Kate, with cunning grace, worried the Prince's life.
There 's something sweet in early “love;” I think you've found it so;
Some, in its budding promise yet,—some knew it long ago.
Sometimes the sly, winged Cupid puts a sting within your marrow;
But oftener smitten hearts declare, there's honey on his arrow.

360

Soho! you speak of “Yankee Land,” a noble country, truly;
I quite agree with you, my friend, I mean to praise it duly.
Amid the wealth of sea and soil, republic, kingdom, throne,
This gem of all the nations gleams, a diamond set alone.
You thought of courtship when I spoke just now of Henry V.;
Now leave the ship and keep the court, take land instead of sea.

Call up your jury, Sheriff B., and summon in the Court;
“Bardell and Pickwick's” case is reached,—so read the clerk's report.
This fills the docket, gentle friends: these petals make the flower;
Unfolding, one by one, their scent will fill the “merry hour.”
Unconsciously the sunlit sands will trickle through the glass,
While wit high carnival maintains, and “Mirthful Moments” pass.

361

ELOQUENCE.

[_]

Extracts from poem read before the Philhermenian Society, of Brown University, R. I., September, 1838; and before the Erosophian Adelphi, of Waterville College, Maine, August, 1840.

What, then, is eloquence? No mere parade
Of gorgeous words, in gorgeous forms arrayed;
No pomp of style, no art by masters taught;
Not graceful gesture, not profoundest thought,
Nor reason's power, nor feeling most intense,—
Expound the matchless power of eloquence!
What more are these than rudimental parts,—
Disjecta membra of the art of arts?
Show me the man whose words in torrents rush,
While tides of feeling from his full soul gush;
Simple and clear in style, in action strong,
With Nature's purest utterance on his tongue;
Deep, rich in thought, majestically bright,
In illustration, like meridian light;
Persuasive, gentle, graphic, great, sublime,—
A giant midst the pygmies of his time;
In whom, unconscious, Nature's beauty gleams,
And art itself, but perfect Nature seems;
Able to wield the fiercest mob at will,
Like Him whose voice bade the rough sea be still,
And every billow settled at His word,
The ocean yielding homage to its Lord;—
That man is eloquent; a coal divine,
Brought by some seraph from the eternal shrine,
Has touched his lips, set loose his noble mind
From clogs that hold the mass of human kind,
Made him soar upward, gloriously free,
And breathe the soulful air of liberty.

362

But not in him alone the gift resides;
Pure eloquence has many a home besides:
Not fettered down, 't is true, by stated rules,
Chastened and trained, like logic, in the schools,
Not forced, like rhetoric, to be an art,—
But breathing life and power from Nature's heart.
Wildly, but sweet, its lovely cadence floats,
Well worthy to be viewed as Heaven-taught notes.
Where can a spot in Nature's ample round,
Filled with Jehovah's workmanship, be found,—
A spot where myriad suns converge their rays,
And worlds to worlds respond their Maker's praise,
Or where in meaner ranks creation throngs,
And countless thousands chant their gladsome songs,
While the minutest worm is called to share—
Sublime compassion!—its Creator's care,
Where, where a spot, through Nature's vast extent,
But God has made superbly eloquent!

See where Imagination mounts its throne,
And boasts a rich creation, all its own,
Bold, mighty, clear, magnificent, complete,—
There all ideals of perfection meet!
If the real world is eloquent with truth,
In art and nature, hoary age and youth,
Which, though it grieves us, still demands an ear,—
And woe betide the man who scorns to hear;—
Imagination, in its rainbows drest,
Utters its eloquence in every breast;
Puts on all charms, assumes all gay attire;
Makes tears of blood, or breath of living fire;
Raises the beggar to a kingly throne,
Or nods, and thousands tread the monarch down;
Bids the dark ocean heave its waves on high,
Or whispers, and the stormy tempests die!

363

Touched by its power, we start from troubled sleep,
Tremble and quiver, and long vigils keep;
Again, it lulls us to an angel's rest,—
Pure, sweet, and tranquil as the evening west;
Moved by the scenes it feigns, our hearts have bled,
Grief rose in floods, tears were in torrents shed;
Bound by the magic of its mighty spell,
We wept in agony, when all was well!
Oh, say, what mistress else has strength to bind
The secret movements of the free-born mind?
What energy besides can melt and mould
The human spirit like to liquid gold?
What agent rule us by a law so stern,
Which oft disgusts us, while we o'er it yearn?
Say, what within, beyond, the realm of sense,
Boasts with more right the power of Eloquence.

SOUL-LIBERTY, THE WATCHWORD OF THE WORLD.

[_]

The following verses were originally written, as will appear during the perusal, to honor the “Early Baptists of New England.” They have a larger range of tribute than belongs to any individual branch of the Church of Christ. They reflect those elements of character which pervaded the early Christians of America, and made American Independence possible.

Sing, Muse of history, sing the deathless fame
Of heroes honored by a spotless name;
From selfish aims and low ambition pure,
Born for a work which ever shall endure.
Brave men and true, with fearless steps they trod,
Soul-liberty their aim,—their leader, God.

364

Slaves to no creed, chained by no iron rule,
Bound by no ritual, servants of no school,
Pledged to no standing order, all their plan
To trust God's truth to God, man's rights to man,—
They held no precept but the Saviour's word,
Called no one “Master” but their glorious Lord.
They claimed no right the conscience to restrain,
Deemed human rites both useless things and vain,
Taught infant baptism,—when the babes believed,
And their young hearts the Saviour's grace received;
Believed in sprinkling—of Christ's precious blood—
And urged their converts to that cleansing flood.
But, dead to sin, they chose the mystic grave,
Memorial blest of Him who came to save;
Then taught the world, by charity divine,
How Christ's sweet spirit in the life can shine;
All men embrace within its mighty span,
Grant each his right, and honor man as man.

Careless of steepled grace and Gothic pile,
Their earliest church on yonder sea-girt isle
In faith they planted, and bedewed with tears
The infant slip, the joy of later years.
When scourged by power, the cruel stripes they bore;
Eased by God's succor, made their converts more.
When doomed to exile, wider still they spread
The faith they loved, the truth for which they bled.
Their zeal for God, by fire and dungeons tried,
Grew when they suffered, triumphed when they died.
Free as the water, rippling on their strand,
Reaching and kissing every distant land,
So the broad truths they taught, hemmed in no more,
Seek every land, and find each distant shore.

365

The church they founded here, oppressed and tried,
For which they suffered, and in which they died,
Stood for Christ's truth, brought freedom to the oppressed,
Joy to the prisoner,—to the troubled, rest;
Like some fair beacon, marked the blessed way,
And shed its welcome light across the bay.
They passed from earth, the champions in the fight,
Their hearts undaunted, and their armor bright;
Servants of men not they, but fearing God;
And countless thousands in their steps have trod.

As gentle clouds that drink the morning dew
Float in the light, and bathe in heaven's bright blue,
But, noonday past, in gold and crimson, rest,
Like gorgeous mountains, in the glowing west,
While day departs in peaceful beauty die,
Leaving their tranquil glow along the sky,—
So lived Christ's witnesses, friends of Christ's truth,
As men endowed with an unfailing youth,
And dying, left, like daylight's golden train,
Blest memories in which they live again.

O men of God, O men of faith and prayer,
Whose souls craved freedom as the lungs crave air,
Blest for your work, whose fruits, like harvests, wave,
Blest for the noble heritage ye gave,
In filial love, in manly strength and cheer,
In queenly charms and beauty, gathered here,
Honors sincere around your brows we wreathe,
And blessings on your memories we breathe;
Be ours the honor and the bliss to wear
With grateful joy and pride your mantles rare,
Till o'er each bannered height shall swing, unfurled,
“Soul-liberty,”—the watchword of the world.

366

THE UNFETTERED CONSCIENCE.

[_]

In 1665 the authorities of the Town of Boston nailed up the doors of the First Baptist Church, and forbade its use. The order was soon after revoked.

At the 200th Anniversary of the historic event above noticed, the following lines were read, to illustrate that heroism, founded upon religious convictions, which largely distinguished the Founders of the Great American Republic.

Aye, “close the doors, and nail them fast,”
“Shut out the faithful few”
Who nailed their banners to the mast,
To Christ and conscience true;
Their motto, “What the Scripture saith,”
With souls serene and brave,
And held unshrinkingly the faith
The Word and Spirit gave.

Aye, “Nail the doors,”—bleak winds of March
Roared round the little flock;
But, peaceful as the heaven's blue arch,
Their zeal defied the shock;
Not theirs, made weak by coward fear
The truth they loved, to yield;
Not theirs, compelled by scoff and jeer,
To hasten from the field.

One Sabbath, scattered through the town,
Barred from their house of prayer,
Crushed by the ruler's scorn and frown,
The people's taunt and stare;

367

The next, to God and duty true,
Met in their lowly shed,
They worshipped Him in tears, who knew
Not where to lay His head.

Aye, “Nail the doors,”—the rulers deemed
Their act had power to bind
The sacred rights of men redeemed,
To crush the freeborn mind;
But who shall bind the beams of light
The sun at midday flings?
Or check the eagle's heavenward flight
By cobwebs on his wings?

Prisons and fines, and pain and death,
In vain assert control
O'er that free thing, the Almighty breath,
God's image in the soul;
Tyrants of earth, with mace and crown,
May make an empire cower;
The soul—an empire of its own—
Defies their utmost power.

Can man o'er noontide's glory bring
A pall of blackest night?
Or grains of dust upon his wing
Impede the seraph's flight?
God's thought, unchecked by human rule,
Shall hold its mighty sway;
God's law shall found its lofty school,
And love make all obey.

Aye, “Nail the doors,”—the mighty wrong
The erring hammer wrought,—
A seed, that day,—harvests, ere long,—
With wondrous fruits was fraught;

368

As ships, in ballast, oft depart,
Yet, when they homeward sail,
Bring wealth uncounted to the mart,
Nor heed the stormy gale.

Aye, “Nail the doors,”—yet God's true light
From God's blest Word will shine;
Conscience and truth will have their right,—
“'T is human,” 't is divine;
Hold in your leash the billowy sea,
Fetter the waves of sound,
Man's soul,—God's truth,—divinely free,
By man cannot be bound.

BE JOYFUL.

[_]

Breakfast Hymn, for the American Tract Society, May, 1864.

Joy!—for the precious seed that springs
In fields which God, the Lord, hath blessed;
Joy!—for the sower, where he sings
On the bright hills of heavenly rest!

Joy!—for the fields where men have strewed,
In faith and love, salvation's leaves!
Joy!—for the reaper, safe with God,
And honored with his ripened sheaves!

Joy for the fathers! once they wrought
'Mid scenes of sorrow, blood, and strife;
Gladly we choose the paths they sought,
And track their steps, to endless life.

369

Joy for the fallen! glory won,
No more the dust of earth they tread;
The work proceeds,—and God's dear Son
Shall triumph, where their feet have bled.

Joy for the Saviour! sin, o'er-thrown
At last, no more fierce fight shall wage.
Joy for Immanuel! wear the crown,
Immortal Prince,—from age to age!

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

In all this bright and pleasant land
Of sunshine, dew, and flowers,
Has sprung to life no Christmas tree
More fair than this of ours.

Up from the strengthening earth no sap
Flows out from stem to stem,
But beauty crowns each bending branch,
A Christmas diadem.

No faded blossoms drooping hang,
No withered twig is seen;
Love set, and love adorned, the tree,—
And love is ever green.

And every little leaflet clings
Closely to every other,
Like nestling bird to nestling bird,
Like child to loving mother.

370

Brought from the field where once it grew,—
Alive, without a root;
'T is not a fruit tree, but it yields
The most amazing fruit.

What would you find upon the tree?
Cake, candy, book, or pistol?
Perhaps not all, but love, as dear
As any love in Bristol.

Then welcome to the festal hall;
Come to our Christmas tree;
Come where the branches drop their gifts,
Like the blest gospel, free.

In all this bright and pleasant land
Of sunshine, dew, and flowers,
Has sprung to life no Christmas tree,
More fair than this of ours.

Bristol, R. I., Christmas, 1870.

SIBYLLINE LEAVES.

[_]

Read at a dinner of the Harvard Class of 1829.

“Will you buy my leaves, O monarch?
They teem with wondrous lore
Of things ordained to happen,
Casting their shades before;
The precious truths are written
In volumes three times three;
Come, monarch, pay the sesterces
And take the books from me.”

371

“Away! I scorn thee, Sibyl,”
The haughty Tarquin cried,
“Thou hast no power to open
What God hath sworn to hide;”
The Sibyl took her volumes
And proudly stalked away;
“Three shall be burned,” she muttered,
“Six shall bring equal pay.”

The curling flames blazed brightly,
Three volumes ceased to be;
“Now, six, O haughty Tarquin,
Await thy high decree:
Three precious tomes have perished,
That told Rome's coming fate;
Say, wilt thou take the six I hold,
And save the glorious state?”

Again refused the monarch,—
Three volumes burned again,
Like dry leaves in the forest,
Where comes no dew nor rain.
And stood again the Sibyl
Before proud Tarquin's door;
“Three volumes now I offer thee,
Their worth,—nor less, nor more.”

And Rome's great king relented,—
“'T is much, O hag, to pay,
But sesterces, whate'er you wish,
Sibyl, are yours to-day;
These honored leaves shall rule the state
Saved by your words prophetic,
From Thule ultima remote,
To empires trans-Gangetic.”

372

The bark we launched in years long past
On the world's stormy sea,
Sailed with no Sibyl leaves to tell
How strange its fates should be.
But deeds are better far than words,—
Acts, than prophetic pen;
Prouder than hopes of things to be,
Are high deeds that have been.

No Sibyl in mysterious lore
Things secret e'er reveals,
And only life, with solemn pomp,
The book of Fate unseals;
Thou saidst, O Sibyl, volumes three
Filled with thy lore divine,
Were worth as many sesterces
As were the volumes nine.

But one grand life, whose noble deeds
File by, as men in battle,—
Borne strongly to its glorious end,
Amid the world's vain rattle,—
Is worth a thousand promises
Dreamed by a brain ascetic;
Our glory is in acts, not words,—
Deeds done, not deeds prophetic.

373

DORCAS.

“This woman was full of good works and almsdeeds which she did.”

Acts ix. 36.

The coats and garments, deftly made
By Dorcas for the poor,
Excel in beauty all the robes
That monarchs ever wore.
These, from the sphere of mortal things,
Like breaths of wind have passed;
The record of her humble work,
Forevermore will last.

The gold and gems of royal courts,
Glittered their fleeting day;
The shining jewels men admire,
Were fair,—but where are they?
The coats and garments Dorcas made
To bless the humble poor,
Are treasured with the holy things
Which ever shall endure.

For when the Judge, with glory crowned,
Takes His immortal throne,
And such as did His will on earth,
His loving voice shall own,
They, in the sufferers whom they helped,
Their Lord Himself shall see,—
“In that ye did it unto these,
Ye did it unto me.”

My sister's eighty-ninth birthday, March 17, 1895.

It is not out of place to add, for example's sake, that during a few months previous to the date of this brotherly tribute, the subject of the verses sent to the needy poor children of the South, more than two hundred useful articles, all of which were her own handiwork.—

Ed.

374

OUR YEARS ROLL ON.

[_]

A “Carrier's Address” written January 1, 1832, while a student at Andover, Mass., and recalled to mind by the poet, with a loving confidence that when years on earth shall end, a blessed immortality lies beyond.

The choice of this poem, written shortly before the hymn, “My Country, 't is of thee,” has been adopted, with the poet's approval, as the closing selection of this volume. The experience of a long life has confirmed his early estimate of duty, as “Our years roll on.”

Our years roll on; and fleeting years are they,
Brief as the rainbow on the dropping spray
Of some wild waterfall, that foams afar,
Where Nature's rudest rocks and forests are.
With heaven's bright hues the falling raindrops burn;
They hurry onward; others, in their turn,
Shine just as bright, and glow as soft and clear;
But while we look, their beauties disappear.

Our years roll on; and varied years are they.
Here smile the buds of hope; there dwells decay.
Now friends are here; but quickly they depart,
And death unwinds the strings that bind the heart.
Pleasure and pain their changing courses keep,
Sure as our waking hours succeed to sleep;
From wave to wave we mount, till changing tires,
And life—the close of changing scenes—expires.

Our years roll on; and blessed years are they,
Cheered with the righteous Sun's reviving ray.
The streams of rich salvation round us flow,
And thousand hearts their precious virtue know.

375

Tidings of souls renewed and sins forgiven
Come floating by, on every wind of heaven;
The sway of sin begins at length to wane;
And o'er the world the Saviour comes to reign.

Our years roll on; and active years are they.
O'er flowery banks we may not take our way;
We may not linger where soft numbers swell,
Nor over-love the things we love so well.
'T is ours to work for God; 't is ours to go
Through earth's wide field, the precious seed to sow.
We may not rest till life's bright years decline;
Then, like the sun in heaven, our names shall shine.

Our years roll on; our years must pass away.
Our youth's companions, tell us, where are they?
And where are thousands whom we knew before,—
Thousands, whose faces we shall see no more?
Among the dead their dwelling is to-day.
Hear we their voice, “Ye living, watch and pray!”
Hear and obey; then we no scene may fear;
But each revolving sun shall bring a happy year.

University of Virginia Library

4. Part IV. MISCELLANEOUS HYMNS AND ODES.

INTERVIEWS WITH NATURE.

THE FLAG IN NATURE.