Poems of home and country Also, Sacred and Miscellaneous Verse |
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| VERSES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. |
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 | Poems of home and country |  |
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!
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!
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!
346
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!
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!
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,
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?
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,
347
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,—
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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!
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.
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.
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;
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?
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.
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.”
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.
As once in Eden's bowers;
But woman holds the highest place
At this fair feast of ours.
353
THE GOOD AND GREAT MAN.
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?
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 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 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;
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,—
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
'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!
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.
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:—
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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;
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.”
On a trip with your wife, or your merry-tongued daughter;
358
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?”
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;
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.”
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
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.
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.
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
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.
“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.
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!
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
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!
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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;
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.
Barred from their house of prayer,
Crushed by the ruler's scorn and frown,
The people's taunt and stare;
367
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?
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.
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.
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;
As ships, in ballast, oft depart,
Yet, when they homeward sail,
Bring wealth uncounted to the mart,
Nor heed the stormy gale.
The erring hammer wrought,—
A seed, that day,—harvests, ere long,—
With wondrous fruits was fraught;
368
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
'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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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 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?”
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.”
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.”
“'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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
Cheered with the righteous Sun's reviving ray.
The streams of rich salvation round us flow,
And thousand hearts their precious virtue know.
375
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.
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.
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.
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