Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay;
A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day—
When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you
Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
My wife said, as we talked of it together,
It seemed as if some of our old farm weather
Had got tired of the sober hills of brown,
Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!
A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day—
When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you
Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
My wife said, as we talked of it together,
It seemed as if some of our old farm weather
Had got tired of the sober hills of brown,
Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!
We went to church, and heard a sermon preached,
Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,
And lifted us up toward the town divine,
Till we could almost see the steeples shine,
And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled
Along the massive turnpikes made of gold.
We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true
It made me think of every flower I knew;
And when, with benediction, the old pastor
Said "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master,
It put my resolution to the rack,
To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!
Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,
And lifted us up toward the town divine,
Till we could almost see the steeples shine,
And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled
Along the massive turnpikes made of gold.
We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true
It made me think of every flower I knew;
And when, with benediction, the old pastor
Said "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master,
It put my resolution to the rack,
To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!
We tried to come straight out, as Christians should,
And bring away all of it that we could;
But there were certain persons there to-day,
Who, after church was over, clogged the way,
And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles,
Held a week-day reception in the aisles.
And bring away all of it that we could;
But there were certain persons there to-day,
Who, after church was over, clogged the way,
And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles,
Held a week-day reception in the aisles.
Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame,
He wants to get home safely with the same;
And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,
And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,
Intended, by some power, his mind to bring
Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing—
From office, and good methods to ensure it,
To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.
He wants to get home safely with the same;
And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,
And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,
Intended, by some power, his mind to bring
Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing—
From office, and good methods to ensure it,
To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.
[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
These are the spires that were gleaming
All through my juvenile dreaming;
Here the high belfries are singing:
Gold invitations they're winging,
Asking man through the charmed portal,
Where he is once more immortal;
Where he may hide from his cares,
Under a shelter of prayers.
Why do these halls, high and broad,
Under the same constant God,
Vary in structure and style—
Differ, from chancel to aisle?
Why forms and creeds so diverse?
Why is my blessing your curse?
Pondering here on the street,
This is one reason I meet:
All through my juvenile dreaming;
Here the high belfries are singing:
Gold invitations they're winging,
Asking man through the charmed portal,
Where he is once more immortal;
Where he may hide from his cares,
Under a shelter of prayers.
Why do these halls, high and broad,
Under the same constant God,
Vary in structure and style—
Differ, from chancel to aisle?
Why forms and creeds so diverse?
Why is my blessing your curse?
Pondering here on the street,
This is one reason I meet:
[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
October 5, 18—.
Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue!—what a start
You've got here in this city's feverish heart!
There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,
But some one's here to teach it, day and night;
No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,
But some one has it ready to his hand!
You've got here in this city's feverish heart!
There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,
But some one's here to teach it, day and night;
No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,
But some one has it ready to his hand!
And then the churches—thick and rich of yield,
As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,
Where any one the golden fruit can find
All ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;
Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,
And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece
(Much too expensive, it might well be said,
If bodies only need be clothed and fed).
As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,
Where any one the golden fruit can find
All ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;
Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,
And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece
(Much too expensive, it might well be said,
If bodies only need be clothed and fed).
And then the missions—regular district schools,
Where transient men are taught eternal rules;
Then the Salvation Army girls and boys,
Who season their religion up with noise,
And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the power
To help keep silent even half an hour;
But who take ragged wretches every day,
Haul them into the straight and narrow way,
Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it,
And get them saved—almost before they know it!
It's something good to make these people good,
Who never go to church, and never would!
Where transient men are taught eternal rules;
Then the Salvation Army girls and boys,
Who season their religion up with noise,
And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the power
To help keep silent even half an hour;
But who take ragged wretches every day,
Haul them into the straight and narrow way,
Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it,
And get them saved—almost before they know it!
It's something good to make these people good,
Who never go to church, and never would!
God bless each woman, man, and child, I say,
That leads His creatures in the heavenly way,
Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means,
Or march with drums and flags and tambourines!
That leads His creatures in the heavenly way,
Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means,
Or march with drums and flags and tambourines!
Then there's those men who've crept and crawled as low
As even Satan cared to have them go;
Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks,
Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks,
Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells,
Have sinned their way through several different hells;
Whose lives have been so terribly amiss
To ever find worse worlds than they've made this;
Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun,
And been washed up as clean as any one,
And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above;
Till they themselves start off on deeds of love,
And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow,
"I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now."
Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss,
"What! can there be some square way out of this?"
And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes,
Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams!
As even Satan cared to have them go;
Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks,
Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks,
Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells,
Have sinned their way through several different hells;
Whose lives have been so terribly amiss
To ever find worse worlds than they've made this;
Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun,
And been washed up as clean as any one,
And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above;
Till they themselves start off on deeds of love,
And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow,
"I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now."
Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss,
"What! can there be some square way out of this?"
And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes,
Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams!
Oh you who shout or sing or chant or read—
Whatever be your name or style or creed—
If any one on earth a plan has got
(Whether it's half as good as yours or not)
To find a gate into the narrow way,
And let in others that have gone astray——
If there's a single chance to mortals given
By which to slip poor mortals into Heaven,
For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath,
Or throw a scornful word into their path!
But interfere with help in their affairs,
And push them with your money and your prayers!
For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath,
In this strange world and in the next one, both;
And he who saves his fellow-men from pain,
Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain?
But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner,
That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner,
Unable even to follow my own view,
Much less to counsel others how to do.
I can't even eat—when I come right down to it,
Without a bell to tell me when to do it.
So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse,
And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.
Whatever be your name or style or creed—
If any one on earth a plan has got
(Whether it's half as good as yours or not)
To find a gate into the narrow way,
And let in others that have gone astray——
If there's a single chance to mortals given
By which to slip poor mortals into Heaven,
For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath,
Or throw a scornful word into their path!
But interfere with help in their affairs,
And push them with your money and your prayers!
For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath,
In this strange world and in the next one, both;
And he who saves his fellow-men from pain,
Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain?
But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner,
That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner,
Unable even to follow my own view,
Much less to counsel others how to do.
I can't even eat—when I come right down to it,
Without a bell to tell me when to do it.
So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse,
And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.
[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
[MORE WAYS THAN ONE.]
I was present, one day
Where both layman and priest
Worshipped God in a way
That was startling, at least:
Over thirty in place
On the stage, in a row,
As is often the case
At a minstrelsy show;
In a uniform clad
Was each one of them seen,
And a banjo they had,
And a loud tambourine.
And they sung and they shouted
Their spasmodic joys,
Just as if they ne'er doubted
That God loved a noise.
Where both layman and priest
Worshipped God in a way
That was startling, at least:
Over thirty in place
On the stage, in a row,
As is often the case
At a minstrelsy show;
In a uniform clad
Was each one of them seen,
And a banjo they had,
And a loud tambourine.
And they sung and they shouted
Their spasmodic joys,
Just as if they ne'er doubted
That God loved a noise.
And their phrases, though all
Not deficient in points,
A grammarian would call
Rather weak in the joints;
And the aspirate sound
Was adroitly misused,
And The Language all round,
Was assaulted and bruised;
While the tunes that they sung
In bewildering throngs,
Had been married, when young,
To hilarious songs;
And the folks in that place,
Who this loud racket made,
Were not bounded by race
Or condition or shade.
Not deficient in points,
A grammarian would call
Rather weak in the joints;
And the aspirate sound
Was adroitly misused,
And The Language all round,
Was assaulted and bruised;
While the tunes that they sung
In bewildering throngs,
Had been married, when young,
To hilarious songs;
And the folks in that place,
Who this loud racket made,
Were not bounded by race
Or condition or shade.
Now I love my own meeting,
My own cosy pew,
While mentally greeting
Friends quietly true;
And the Gospel dispensed
With a dignified grace,
Born of reason clear-sensed
And a faith firm of place.
I love the trained voices
That float down the aisles,
Till the whole church rejoices
With God's sweetest smiles.
Have no sneer understood
For the rest, when I say
I had rather get good
In a civilized way.
My own cosy pew,
While mentally greeting
Friends quietly true;
And the Gospel dispensed
With a dignified grace,
Born of reason clear-sensed
And a faith firm of place.
I love the trained voices
That float down the aisles,
Till the whole church rejoices
With God's sweetest smiles.
Have no sneer understood
For the rest, when I say
I had rather get good
In a civilized way.
So this meeting had grated
Somewhat on my heart,
And ere long I had waited,
I thought to depart.
But a young man arose,
Looking sin-drenched and grim,
As if rain-storms of woes
Had descended on him;
Somewhat on my heart,
And ere long I had waited,
I thought to depart.
But a young man arose,
Looking sin-drenched and grim,
As if rain-storms of woes
Had descended on him;
No such face you'd discern
In a leisurely search,
If you took a chance turn
Through a civilized church;
But his words, though not choice,
To my feelings came nigh;
There was growth in his voice,
There was hope in his eye.
In a leisurely search,
If you took a chance turn
Through a civilized church;
But his words, though not choice,
To my feelings came nigh;
There was growth in his voice,
There was hope in his eye.
And he said, "I'm a lad
With a life full of blame;
Every step has been bad,
Every hour was a shame.
And for drink I would pawn
All within my control,
From the clothes I had on,
To my heart and my soul.
I have drank the foul stuff
In my parents' hot tears;
I have done crime enough
For a hundred black years;
But I came to this place
For the help that I craved;
I have seen Jesus's face,
And I know I am saved."
With a life full of blame;
Every step has been bad,
Every hour was a shame.
And for drink I would pawn
All within my control,
From the clothes I had on,
To my heart and my soul.
I have drank the foul stuff
In my parents' hot tears;
I have done crime enough
For a hundred black years;
But I came to this place
For the help that I craved;
I have seen Jesus's face,
And I know I am saved."
Then a man rose to view,
When this youngster was done,
And he said, "This is true;
That young man is my son.
He was drunk every day,
And such terror would make,
That I spurned him away
From my house, like a snake.
We have suffered the worst
That can come from heart-fears;
He is sober the first
I have seen him for years.
I am full of such joy
As I never yet knew;
And now, Robert, my boy,
Home is open to you!
When this youngster was done,
And he said, "This is true;
That young man is my son.
He was drunk every day,
And such terror would make,
That I spurned him away
From my house, like a snake.
We have suffered the worst
That can come from heart-fears;
He is sober the first
I have seen him for years.
I am full of such joy
As I never yet knew;
And now, Robert, my boy,
Home is open to you!
"You may go home with me—
Or may run on before;
You've a glittering key
That will open the door!
Your mother is there,
Praying for you e'en now;
There is snow in her hair,
There is pain on her brow.
And when you have kissed her
The old-fashioned way,
There's a brother and sister
Who've longed for this day;
And whatever can befriend you
On earth, shall be done;
May God's blessing attend you,
My son—oh, my son!"
Or may run on before;
You've a glittering key
That will open the door!
Your mother is there,
Praying for you e'en now;
There is snow in her hair,
There is pain on her brow.
And when you have kissed her
The old-fashioned way,
There's a brother and sister
Who've longed for this day;
And whatever can befriend you
On earth, shall be done;
May God's blessing attend you,
My son—oh, my son!"
Then the banjo struck in,
And the tambourine jingled;
There rose such a din
That my blood fairly tingled.
The vocalists screamed
Till quite red in the face;
But somehow it all seemed
Not at all out of place!
Now denouements immense
Do riot somehow take hold,
Or dramatic events
Reach my heart, as of old;
But my smiles could not hide
The fast-gathering tears,
And I cheered, laughed, and cried,
As I had not for years!
And I thought, "Not amiss
Are this tumult and shout:
Folks who save men like this
Know what they are about.
You who fight with God's sword
For the good of your kind—
You can never afford
To leave these men behind.
If these women I've seen,
Should be pelted or cursed,
I would step in between—
I would take the blow first.
They who draw souls above
From the depths lowest down,
Will not fail of God's love
Or to shine in His crown."
And the tambourine jingled;
There rose such a din
That my blood fairly tingled.
The vocalists screamed
Till quite red in the face;
But somehow it all seemed
Not at all out of place!
Now denouements immense
Do riot somehow take hold,
Or dramatic events
Reach my heart, as of old;
But my smiles could not hide
The fast-gathering tears,
And I cheered, laughed, and cried,
As I had not for years!
And I thought, "Not amiss
Are this tumult and shout:
Folks who save men like this
Know what they are about.
You who fight with God's sword
For the good of your kind—
You can never afford
To leave these men behind.
If these women I've seen,
Should be pelted or cursed,
I would step in between—
I would take the blow first.
They who draw souls above
From the depths lowest down,
Will not fail of God's love
Or to shine in His crown."
THE SALVATION ARMY.
[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
[THE MARCH OF THE CHILDREN.]
List to the sound of the drumming!
Gaily the children are coming;
Sweet as the smile of a fairy,
Fresh as the blossoms they carry.
Pride of the parents who love them,
Pure as the azure above them,
Free as the winds that caress them,
Bright as the sunbeams that bless them.
Gaily the children are coming;
Sweet as the smile of a fairy,
Fresh as the blossoms they carry.
Pride of the parents who love them,
Pure as the azure above them,
Free as the winds that caress them,
Bright as the sunbeams that bless them.
List to the voice-echoes ringing!
Sweeter than birds they are singing;
Thoughts that to virtue invite them,
Wed unto airs that delight them.
Truths that their future will cherish,
Soul-planted, never to perish!
Only to senses completer,
Heaven's choicest music were sweeter!
Virtue, unconscious and pretty,
Walks through the streets of the city;
See the gay bannerets flying,
Mottoes and titles undying;
Truths dearly hallowed and olden,
Braided in strands that are golden;
Words for the spirit's desiring,
Sentences sweetly inspiring!
Walks through the streets of the city;
See the gay bannerets flying,
Mottoes and titles undying;
Truths dearly hallowed and olden,
Braided in strands that are golden;
Words for the spirit's desiring,
Sentences sweetly inspiring!
When, in a voice of caressing,
Christ gave the children His blessing,
'Twas not for one generation—
But for each epoch and nation.
So through the present it
lingers,
Shed from His bountiful
fingers;
So unto these it is given—
Types of the angels in
Heaven.
Christ gave the children His blessing,
'Twas not for one generation—
But for each epoch and nation.
So through the present it
lingers,
Shed from His bountiful
fingers;
So unto these it is given—
Types of the angels in
Heaven.
TRAVEL.
[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
November 1, 18—.
It's quite the thing to "travel" nowadays
(Although I do not think it always pays),
And see if distant ground in general looks
As mentioned in the papers and in books.
I find, in sifting what few facts I know,
Three ways of realizing things are so:
First, when you're told them in such trusty shape
That square belief isn't easy to escape.
(There's lots of people—this town wouldn't hold them—
Who don't know much excepting what is told them.)
Second, what you've put on some mental shelf,
By having seen and understood yourself.
(How well we know things witnessed, largely lies
On how much brain there is behind our eyes.)
The third way is the surest and the best
(Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed):
It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you,
Until you feel, from head to foot, 'tis true.
I think, sometimes, when all is said and done,
Feeling is all the senses joined in one.
(Although I do not think it always pays),
And see if distant ground in general looks
As mentioned in the papers and in books.
I find, in sifting what few facts I know,
Three ways of realizing things are so:
First, when you're told them in such trusty shape
That square belief isn't easy to escape.
(There's lots of people—this town wouldn't hold them—
Who don't know much excepting what is told them.)
Second, what you've put on some mental shelf,
By having seen and understood yourself.
(How well we know things witnessed, largely lies
On how much brain there is behind our eyes.)
The third way is the surest and the best
(Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed):
It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you,
Until you feel, from head to foot, 'tis true.
I think, sometimes, when all is said and done,
Feeling is all the senses joined in one.
We're going to travel!—not so very far
As our new friends, the Fitzcumnoodles, are,
Who cannot read their social title's clear
Unless they ride twelve thousand miles a year,
(I told them, with a philosophic smile,
That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.)
But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow,
With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow,
To where George Washington laid out a town
That several centuries won't see tumbled down!
A city which, with all the sneaking sinners
That come down there to steal their daily dinners,
And all the human insects hovering nigh,
Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie,
And spite of all the bad weeds growing round,
Has always some good folks upon the ground,
And will be head-piece of the greatest nation
That ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.
As our new friends, the Fitzcumnoodles, are,
Who cannot read their social title's clear
Unless they ride twelve thousand miles a year,
(I told them, with a philosophic smile,
That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.)
But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow,
With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow,
To where George Washington laid out a town
That several centuries won't see tumbled down!
A city which, with all the sneaking sinners
That come down there to steal their daily dinners,
And all the human insects hovering nigh,
Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie,
And spite of all the bad weeds growing round,
Has always some good folks upon the ground,
And will be head-piece of the greatest nation
That ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.
The Fitzcumnoodles, through their daughter Maud,
Inform us that we ought to go abroad;
The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned,
From an extended trip have just returned;
And so my eldest daughter, Isabel,
Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well,
Called on her in the progress of a walk,
And had a pleasant little travel-talk;
And after coming home misspent her time
In putting what she heard there into rhyme
And—lost it—not by accident, I fear;
I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:
Inform us that we ought to go abroad;
The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned,
From an extended trip have just returned;
And so my eldest daughter, Isabel,
Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well,
Called on her in the progress of a walk,
And had a pleasant little travel-talk;
And after coming home misspent her time
In putting what she heard there into rhyme
And—lost it—not by accident, I fear;
I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:
HER TOUR.
Yes, we've been travelling, my dear,
Three months, or such a matter,
And it's a blessing to get clear
Of all the clash and clatter!
Ah! when I look the guide-book through,
And see each queer place in there,
'Tis hard to make it seem quite true
That I myself have been there!
Three months, or such a matter,
And it's a blessing to get clear
Of all the clash and clatter!
Ah! when I look the guide-book through,
And see each queer place in there,
'Tis hard to make it seem quite true
That I myself have been there!
Our voyage? Oh, of course 'twas gay—
Delightful! splendid! glorious!
We spurned the shore—we sped away—
We rode the waves victorious.
The first mate's mustache was so grand!
The ocean sweet, though stormy
(I was so sick I could not stand,
But papa saw it for me).
Delightful! splendid! glorious!
We spurned the shore—we sped away—
We rode the waves victorious.
The first mate's mustache was so grand!
The ocean sweet, though stormy
(I was so sick I could not stand,
But papa saw it for me).
At Queenstown we saw land once more—
Ground never looked so pretty!
We took a steam-car near the shore
For some light-sounding city.
A very ordinary stone
We had to kiss at Blarney;
The beggars wouldn't let us alone
That half-day at Killarney!
Ground never looked so pretty!
We took a steam-car near the shore
For some light-sounding city.
A very ordinary stone
We had to kiss at Blarney;
The beggars wouldn't let us alone
That half-day at Killarney!
The Giants' Causeway? 'Tis arranged
With no regard to science;
It must somehow of late have changed—
At least we saw no giants.
Some little funny scrubs of folks
Sold pictures, and were merry;
The men were full of yarns and jokes,
The women barefoot—very.
With no regard to science;
It must somehow of late have changed—
At least we saw no giants.
Some little funny scrubs of folks
Sold pictures, and were merry;
The men were full of yarns and jokes,
The women barefoot—very.
Old Scotland? Yes, all in our power
We did there to be thorough;
We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour,
Then straight to "Edinborough."
At Abbotsford we made a stay
Of half an hour precisely.
(The ruins all along the way
Were ruined very nicely.)
We did there to be thorough;
We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour,
Then straight to "Edinborough."
At Abbotsford we made a stay
Of half an hour precisely.
(The ruins all along the way
Were ruined very nicely.)
We "did" a mountain in the rain,
And left the others undone,
Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.
And came by night to London.
Long tunnels somewhere on the line
Made sound and darkness deeper;
No; English scenery is not fine,
Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.
And left the others undone,
Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.
And came by night to London.
Long tunnels somewhere on the line
Made sound and darkness deeper;
No; English scenery is not fine,
Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.
Oh, Paris! Paris! Paris! 'tis
No wonder, dear, that you go
So far into the ecstasies
About that Victor Hugo!
He paints the city, high and low,
With faithful pen and ready
(I think, my dear, I ought to know—
We drove there two hours steady).
No wonder, dear, that you go
So far into the ecstasies
About that Victor Hugo!
He paints the city, high and low,
With faithful pen and ready
(I think, my dear, I ought to know—
We drove there two hours steady).
Through Switzerland by train. Yes, I
Enjoyed it, in a measure;
But still the mountains are too high
To see with any pleasure.
Their tops—they made my neck quite stiff,
Just stretching up to view them;
And folks are very foolish if
They clamber clear up to them!
Enjoyed it, in a measure;
But still the mountains are too high
To see with any pleasure.
Their tops—they made my neck quite stiff,
Just stretching up to view them;
And folks are very foolish if
They clamber clear up to them!
Rome, Venice, Naples, and the Rhine?
We did them—do not doubt it;
This guide-book here is very fine—
'Twill tell you all about it.
We've saved up Asia till next year,
If business gets unravelled;
What! going? Come again; and, dear,
I will not seem so travelled.
We did them—do not doubt it;
This guide-book here is very fine—
'Twill tell you all about it.
We've saved up Asia till next year,
If business gets unravelled;
What! going? Come again; and, dear,
I will not seem so travelled.
Washington, November 3, 18—.
We're travelling, and we're here! and what a town!
I own, it picks me up and sets me down!
I thought I had some idea of the place,
And what its corporation lines embrace;
I'd read the county papers every week,
Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;
I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,
And, with Imagination for a staff,
Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,
Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;
And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,
'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."
I own, it picks me up and sets me down!
I thought I had some idea of the place,
And what its corporation lines embrace;
I'd read the county papers every week,
Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;
I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,
And, with Imagination for a staff,
Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,
Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;
And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,
'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."
But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated scheme
To prophesy how anything will seem.
This city's new to me—I do not doubt it—
As if I'd never heard a word about it!
There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,
And something even in the very air,
And in the great variety of faces,
Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,
And in that monument that reaches high—
The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,
And in that dome, whose kingly size and height
Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight—
From these, and several hundred other things
This nation's lead-horse city at you flings,
You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,
Into another planet for a while!
To prophesy how anything will seem.
This city's new to me—I do not doubt it—
As if I'd never heard a word about it!
There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,
And something even in the very air,
And in the great variety of faces,
Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,
And in that monument that reaches high—
The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,
And in that dome, whose kingly size and height
Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight—
From these, and several hundred other things
This nation's lead-horse city at you flings,
You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,
Into another planet for a while!
But men too weary to hold up their heads
Are apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds;
Then, having found one, and reclined within it,
Forget about him in just half a minute.
So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)
Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.
Are apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds;
Then, having found one, and reclined within it,
Forget about him in just half a minute.
So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)
Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.
[7] Or woman—let due praise to her be paid;
A bed is never made until 'tis made.
A bed is never made until 'tis made.
[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
AT THE SUMMIT OF THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT.
Look North! A white-clad city fills
This valley to its sloping hills;
Here gleams the modest house of white,
The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height.
Beyond, a pledge of love to one
Who in two lands was Freedom's son—
The holder of an endless debt—
Our nation's brother, Lafayette.
But yonder lines of costly homes
And bristling spires and swelling domes,
And far away the spreading farms
Where thrift displays substantial charms,
And hamlets creeping out of sight,
And cities full of wealth and might,
Must own the fatherhood of him
Whose glory Time can never dim.
All who can reckon Freedom's worth
Would write across this whole broad earth,
With pen dipped in the golden sun,
The magic name of Washington!
If we can keep the rules he gave
This land he more than fought to save,
Our future fame will glisten forth
Grand as the winter-lighted North!
This valley to its sloping hills;
Here gleams the modest house of white,
The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height.
Beyond, a pledge of love to one
Who in two lands was Freedom's son—
The holder of an endless debt—
Our nation's brother, Lafayette.
But yonder lines of costly homes
And bristling spires and swelling domes,
And far away the spreading farms
Where thrift displays substantial charms,
And hamlets creeping out of sight,
And cities full of wealth and might,
Must own the fatherhood of him
Whose glory Time can never dim.
All who can reckon Freedom's worth
Would write across this whole broad earth,
With pen dipped in the golden sun,
The magic name of Washington!
If we can keep the rules he gave
This land he more than fought to save,
Our future fame will glisten forth
Grand as the winter-lighted North!
FROM THE MONUMENT.
Look South!—where, in its coat of gray,
The broad Potomac creeps away,
And seeks the blue of distant skies;
But pauses where the great chief lies
Within his humble, hallowed tomb,
Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom.
As glides this stream, great corse, past thee,
First to the bay, and then the sea,
So flowed thy life to rural rest,
Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest.
Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heart
Climbed from all common greeds apart;
To whom men's selfish ways were small,
As from this tower, serenely tall
(Built that all years thy fame may know),
Men look while creeping there below!
How weak was power to thy clear gaze,
Builder of nations joined in one,
Kindler of splendors still to blaze,
Finder of glories just begun!
Live on, great sleeper! as this stone,
Highest from earth that man has known,
So shall be ranked thy solid worth,
Highest of heroes on the earth!
Happy, secure, and cherished name,
Love is the pillar of thy fame;
Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth,
Warm as the sunbeams of the South!
The broad Potomac creeps away,
And seeks the blue of distant skies;
But pauses where the great chief lies
Within his humble, hallowed tomb,
Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom.
As glides this stream, great corse, past thee,
First to the bay, and then the sea,
So flowed thy life to rural rest,
Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest.
Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heart
Climbed from all common greeds apart;
To whom men's selfish ways were small,
As from this tower, serenely tall
(Built that all years thy fame may know),
Men look while creeping there below!
How weak was power to thy clear gaze,
Builder of nations joined in one,
Kindler of splendors still to blaze,
Finder of glories just begun!
Live on, great sleeper! as this stone,
Highest from earth that man has known,
So shall be ranked thy solid worth,
Highest of heroes on the earth!
Happy, secure, and cherished name,
Love is the pillar of thy fame;
Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth,
Warm as the sunbeams of the South!
Look East! The Nation's castle walls
Spread out in massive beauty now;
Their lofty dome and pictured halls
In homage to this summit bow.
Oh, well that from these palaced lands
The marble spire obeisance win;
But for the one for whom it stands,
This chieftain-town had never been!
Yon plot, so full of brain and will,
Had staid a bleak and lonely hill!
If at five thousand dizzy feet
This shaft the whirling clouds could meet,
Until our gaze for miles, might be,
To the uncrowned but royal sea,
'Twere not too much of honor then,
To grant our crownless king of men.
You who the Nation's laws indite,
Look to this summit's honest white,
Where, throned on walls that must endure,
Pure fame entreats you to be pure;
Until our glory be increased,
Like sunbeams from the dazzling East!
Spread out in massive beauty now;
Their lofty dome and pictured halls
In homage to this summit bow.
Oh, well that from these palaced lands
The marble spire obeisance win;
But for the one for whom it stands,
This chieftain-town had never been!
Yon plot, so full of brain and will,
Had staid a bleak and lonely hill!
If at five thousand dizzy feet
This shaft the whirling clouds could meet,
Until our gaze for miles, might be,
To the uncrowned but royal sea,
'Twere not too much of honor then,
To grant our crownless king of men.
You who the Nation's laws indite,
Look to this summit's honest white,
Where, throned on walls that must endure,
Pure fame entreats you to be pure;
Until our glory be increased,
Like sunbeams from the dazzling East!
Look West! There lie the hilly fields
Where brothers fought through days of dread,
Where mothers brooded o'er their dead,
And soil the thrift of carnage yields;
Where cannon roared and bullets sung,
Till every hillock had a tongue.
O Nation being and to be,
That silent blood speaks loud to thee!
God grant, if e'er our guns again
Must tear the quivering flesh of men,
The leaden hail-storm may be pressed
Against some foul invader's breast—
Against some alien tribe and zone—
And not, as then, to kill our own!
May all the fruitful strifes of peace
The thrilling bonds of love increase;
May yonder orb, in his quick change
From mountain range to mountain range,
From valley to rich valley o'er,
From river shore to river shore,
From wave to wave—may yonder sun
One Nation count, and only one;
Until he dips his fiery crest
Into the ocean of the West!
Where brothers fought through days of dread,
Where mothers brooded o'er their dead,
And soil the thrift of carnage yields;
Where cannon roared and bullets sung,
Till every hillock had a tongue.
O Nation being and to be,
That silent blood speaks loud to thee!
God grant, if e'er our guns again
Must tear the quivering flesh of men,
The leaden hail-storm may be pressed
Against some foul invader's breast—
Against some alien tribe and zone—
And not, as then, to kill our own!
May all the fruitful strifes of peace
The thrilling bonds of love increase;
May yonder orb, in his quick change
From mountain range to mountain range,
From valley to rich valley o'er,
From river shore to river shore,
From wave to wave—may yonder sun
One Nation count, and only one;
Until he dips his fiery crest
Into the ocean of the West!
Look up! The phantom clouds of gray—
Grim ghosts of storm—have passed away;
The veiling of the sky is done,
And downward shines the welcome sun.
He kindles grand and peaceful fires
Upon the city's domes and spires;
He sends his strong magnetic glow
Through yonder moving throngs below.
Thou art, O sky serene and clear,
A symbol of our country here!
What land in all this world of pain,
This earth, where millions toil in vain,
Where famine, pestilence, and strife
Play careless games with human life,
Where Superstition clouds the soul,
And heartless brains sad hearts control—
What country, framed in frost or flowers,
Can see so clear a sky as ours?
Peace throws her mantle, broad and free,
O'er all who peaceable will be;
Plenty her sheltering flag doth wave
O'er those who will but toil and save;
Enlightenment each day shall rise
For all who do not cloud their eyes;
While Liberty from every race
Has made this land a refuge-place.
Let our deep thanks forever fly
Far as the reaches of the sky!
Grim ghosts of storm—have passed away;
The veiling of the sky is done,
And downward shines the welcome sun.
He kindles grand and peaceful fires
Upon the city's domes and spires;
He sends his strong magnetic glow
Through yonder moving throngs below.
Thou art, O sky serene and clear,
A symbol of our country here!
What land in all this world of pain,
This earth, where millions toil in vain,
Where famine, pestilence, and strife
Play careless games with human life,
Where Superstition clouds the soul,
And heartless brains sad hearts control—
What country, framed in frost or flowers,
Can see so clear a sky as ours?
Peace throws her mantle, broad and free,
O'er all who peaceable will be;
Plenty her sheltering flag doth wave
O'er those who will but toil and save;
Enlightenment each day shall rise
For all who do not cloud their eyes;
While Liberty from every race
Has made this land a refuge-place.
Let our deep thanks forever fly
Far as the reaches of the sky!
[From Farmer Harrington's Note-book.]
November 5, 18—.
Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lost
That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost!
Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun;
The house HE slept in when his work was done;
The trees he planted with his own brave hand,
That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land:
The humble tomb he lies in, which—like me—
Pilgrims from all the world have come to see:
These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile,
And preach a funeral sermon all the while!
Even the river-boats upon their way
Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day!
And through it all this precept may be traced:
The noblest men are simplest in their taste.
That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost!
Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun;
The house HE slept in when his work was done;
The trees he planted with his own brave hand,
That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land:
The humble tomb he lies in, which—like me—
Pilgrims from all the world have come to see:
These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile,
And preach a funeral sermon all the while!
Even the river-boats upon their way
Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day!
And through it all this precept may be traced:
The noblest men are simplest in their taste.
I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made,
And all the surface-honors to him paid;
But I don't think the people that come there
Bring any heartfelt sympathy to spare;
While every true-brained patriot, night and morn,
Thanks God for letting Washington be born!
And all the surface-honors to him paid;
But I don't think the people that come there
Bring any heartfelt sympathy to spare;
While every true-brained patriot, night and morn,
Thanks God for letting Washington be born!
While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb,
A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom;
And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head,
And smoking a small white cigar, he said:
"Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten me
As to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?"
Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorge
The fool-idea of calling that man 'George;'
His body, mind, and soul were firmly set
Higher, no doubt, than you will ever get.
He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true,
When friends are near, to be half-named by you.
Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel,
I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."
A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom;
And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head,
And smoking a small white cigar, he said:
"Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten me
As to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?"
Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorge
The fool-idea of calling that man 'George;'
His body, mind, and soul were firmly set
Higher, no doubt, than you will ever get.
He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true,
When friends are near, to be half-named by you.
Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel,
I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."
He looked at me a moment in surprise,
And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes;
But I was quite indignant, and could feel
The blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal.
I said, "One minute more will be allowed;"
The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.
And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes;
But I was quite indignant, and could feel
The blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal.
I said, "One minute more will be allowed;"
The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.
[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
Through these broad streets do I fly—
Furlongs and miles I defy,
Till the "magnificent distance"
Vanishes out of existence.
Let me with pencil prolong
Strains of the Bicycler's Song:
Furlongs and miles I defy,
Till the "magnificent distance"
Vanishes out of existence.
Let me with pencil prolong
Strains of the Bicycler's Song: