NO SOLITUDE
"Whither shall I go from thy Spirit?"
I stood where ocean lashed the sounding shore
With his unresting waves, and gazed far out
Upon the billowy strife. I saw the deep
Lifting his watery arms to grasp the clouds,
While the black clouds stooped from the sable arch
Of the storm-darkened heavens, and deep to deep
Answered responsive in the ceaseless roar
Of thunders and of floods.
"Here, then, I am alone,
And this is solitude, "I murmured low,
As in the presence of the risen storm
I bowed my head abashed. "Alone?"—
The echoing concave of the skies replied,—
"Alone?"—the waves responded, and the winds
In hollow murmurs answered back—"Alone?"
"Thou canst not be alone, for God is here!
Yon mighty waste of waters, whose deep voice
Goes up unceasingly to heaven, He holds
E'en as a drop within His hollow hand!
He makes His dark pavillion stormy clouds;
The winds and thunders are His uttered voice;
And the red flames that blaze athwart the sky
Are but the lightnings of His awful glance!"
* * * *
I stood at eve, where, high in upper air,
A mountain reared its solitary head,
Bathing its forehead in the ruddy light
Of cloudless sunset. Like a snowy veil
The white mist gathered o'er the distant plain,
While, over all, the sunset heavens shone
In burning glory, and the blushing West
Gathered all gorgeous hues into a wreath
Of wondrous radiance to twine around
The temples of her monarch, ere he sought
The chambers of his rest.
Full-orbed the moon
Rode slowly up the east; while, one by one,
Spirits of night lighted the lamps of heaven.
"This is to be alone!"—I whispered low,
For nature's solemn beauty had a spell
To awe my soul to silence.
"What, alone?"—
Murmured the mountain wind, as round my brow
It waved its rustling pinions. "What, alone?"—
Low voices questioned from the sighing pines,—
"Alone?"—the stars repeated to my soul—
"In the Eternal's presence, canst thou stand,
While, from above, His awful glories look,—
While all, around, beneath thee, and within,
Attest His presence, and thus idly deem
Thou art alone? No; thou art not alone,
For God is here!"
* * * *
It was a summer noon.
The soft, south wind made music 'mid the boughs
Of the cool forest, whence glad bursts of song
Floated unceasing. On a mossy bank
Starred with pale flowers, I laid me down to rest,
Yet not to slumber. Tenderly, the sky
Glanced like a loving spirit through the leaves;
And, ever and anon, like fleecy gold,
The yellow sunbeams dropped amid the gloom
Startling the shadows. Twas a hallowed scene!
Each waving leaf seemed Instinct with glad life,
And every sound was richly freighted with
The wealth of harmony.
"Is this to be alone?"
I inly questioned, yet my secret soul
Needed from Nature no responsive voice;
For my whole being, with a thrill of joy.
Replied;—"In all the universe of God,
There is no solitude!"
O soul of mine,
Joy in thy wealth of being!—in the power
To grasp the Infinite where'er thou turn'st;—
To see Him, feel Him near, yet most of all,
Him to adore and love;—to hear His voice
In every breeze, in every gentle chime
Of the sweet waters, in the song of birds,
The hum of insects, and all deeper tones
Of Nature's wondrous music;—yet, far more,
To recognize His Spirit's gentle voice
Unto thy spirit, whisp'ring tenderly—
"I am thy Father, thy Redeemer, thine
Amid the devious paths that checker earth,
And thine in Heaven!"
THE STRAY LAMB.
A GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
We had finished our pitiful morsel,
And both sat in silence a while;
At length we looked up at each other.
And I said, with the ghost of a smile,—
"Only two little potatoes
And a very small crust of bread—
And then?"—"God will care for us, Lucy!"
John, quietly answering, said.
"Yes, God will provide for us, Lucy!"
He said, after musing a while—
I'd been quietly watching his features
With a feeble attempt at a smile—
"For, 'trust in the Lord, and do good,'
Our Father in Heaven has said,
'So shalt thou dwell in the land,
And verily thou shalt be fed!'"
Scarcely the words had he spoken,
When a faint, little tap at the door
Surprised us,—for all the long morning
The rain had continued to pour.
I am sure I shall never remember
The pelting and pitiless rain
Of that desolate day in November,
Without a dull heart-throb of pain.
For work had grown scarcer and scarcer,
Till there seemed not a job to be done;
We had paid out our very last sixpence,
And of fuel and food we had none.
John had tried—no one ever tried harder—
For work, but his efforts were vain;
And I wondered all faith had not failed him
That morning when out in the rain.
"Come in!" said John, speaking quite softly.
And opening the door a small space,
For there stood a thin, little beggar
With such a blue, pitiful face!
"O sir, if you please sir, I'm hungry,
Do give me a small bit of bread!"
"Come in, then, you poor, little woman,
I am sure you are freezing!" John said.
We each caught a hand cold and dripping,
And drew the poor trembler in;
But she sank at our feet like a baby,
Half-frozen, and drenched to the skin.
John ran for our last bit of fuel;
And I, to an old box, where lay
Our own little Maggie's warm clothing,—
Our Maggie—dead many a day!
I tore off her old, dripping tatters,
And rubbed her blue, shivering form;
And then put those precious clothes on her,
And made her all glowing and warm.
"O ma'am, if you please, I'm so hungry!"
Again the dear innocent said;
So John brought our two cold potatoes
And our one little morsel of bread.
"Here, take this,"—he said; and she snatched it,
And ate till the last bit was done;
And we two looked on, never grudging
Our all to the famishing one.
I looked up a half-minute after,
But John had slipped out in the rain;
And the wind was still howling and raging
Like some great, cruel monster in pain.
Soon the pale, little eyelids grew heavy,
And I watched till the weary one slept;—
Then I, a poor weak-hearted woman,
Held her closer, and oh, how I wept!
With our fire all burned out to black ashes,—
Our very last bit of food gone,—
Poor John, too, out facing the tempest,—
And I left there shiv'ring alone!
But the little, warm head on my bosom
Seemed so strangely like hers that I lost;
And the soft, little hands I was holding,
So like the dear hands that I crossed
In their last quiet rest,—and those garments—
Ah, those garments!—I mused till it seemed,
I had got back my own little Maggie;—
And then, for long hours. I dreamed.
* * * *
"Why Lucy, my girl, you are sleeping!—
Come, rouse up, and get us some tea!"—
It was John, who'd returned, and was speaking—
"Poor wife, you're as cold as can be!
See, here are some coals for the firing;
And here is a nice loaf of bread,—
A steak, and a morsel of butter,
Some tea and some sugar"—he said.
"Nay now, do not ask any questions!—
Let me just lay this lammie in bed,
And when we have had a nice supper,
I'll tell you, dear, all how it sped."
And so, when the supper was over—
That supper!—I'll never forget
The warm, glowing fire—oh, so cozy—
I can see every coal of it yet—
We knelt down, and John thanked the dear Father
For all He had sent us that day;—
Yes: e'en for thee dear, pretty baby
His own little lamb gone astray!
And then, in a few words, John told me
Of his desperate walk in the storm—
Every minute believing, expecting,
That God would His promise perform;—
Of the merchant up town who had hailed him,
(One of his men being sick,)
And hired him to run of a message;
And, because he'd been trusty and quick,
Had trebled his wages, and told him
To come the next morning again;
"Just because," added John, softly laughing,
"I'd been willing to work in the rain!"
Well, long ere the morning dawned on us,
The child had grown frantic with pain;
And for many long days she lay moaning
With the fever that burned in her brain.
Every morning John prayed by her pillow,
Then went to his work; and I stayed,
And kept my sad watch the long day through,
And at night he returned to my aid.
At length the fierce struggle was over,
She lived, and we both were content,
For we knew God had given her to us—
His lamb, through the wintry storm sent
The fever had burned every record
Of home and friends out of her mind;
And though we sought long, yet we never
Any traces of either could find.
And so she grew up by our fireside,
And we called her—not Maggie—oh no!—
That name we had laid up in Heaven,
And no one must wear it below!—
But we just called her, Pet; and her husband
Calls her nothing but Pet to this day:—
She's a grown woman now, and a mother,
How swiftly the years glide away!
Well, John never has lacked for employment,
And we never have wanted a home;
We never said nay to a beggar,
Or refused one that asked it a crumb.
Pet grew up a dear, loving woman—
"God's light in our house," John would say—
And when a good man came and took her,
He took us, too, the very same day.
But here she comes now with the baby,
And grandmother never says nay;
So here's a good bye to my story,
For baby has come for a play!
STAY, MOTHER, STAY!
"Stay, mother, stay, for the storm is abroad,
And the tempest is very wild;
It's a fearful night with no ray of light,
Oh stay with your little child!"
"Hush darling!" the mother, with white lips said—
"Lie still till I come again,
God's angels blest will watch o'er thy rest
While I am abroad in the rain!
Thy father, child?—oh, I quake with fear
When I think where he may be,
And I dare not stay till the dawn of day—
I must hasten forth to see!"
Then the young child buried her tangled curls
In the ragged counterpane,
While the half-clad mother went forth alone
In the blinding wind and rain.
Down many a narrow, slippery lane,
Down many a long, dark street,
Went that shivering form thro' the pelting storm
Of wind, and rain, and sleet;
Till, nearing a den where inebriate men,
With Bacchanal oath and yell,
And curse and jeer, spent the midnight drear,
She reeled in the gloom and fell;
For a prostrate form, in the pitiless storm
And inky darkness, lay
Helpless and prone on the pavement-stone,
Across her desolate way.
She knelt alone by the fallen one,
And murmured in accents low,
A name, how dear to her girlhood's ear
In the beautiful long ago!
But no voice, no tone replied to her own,
And the cold hand fell like lead;
And her wailing cry brought back no reply,
As she shrieked "he is dead!—he's dead!"
Aye, "dead!"—God pity thee, stricken wife!
God pity thee, orphan child!
Poor slave to wine, what a death was thine,
In that wintry tempest wild!
We know not how long that wild, drunken song
And those curses assailed her ear,
But the morning-ray found its early way
To one who no more could hear;
For the faithful heart that had borne its part
Awhile, through those watches lone,
Had grown still it last as the pitiless blast
Swept by her with wrathful tone;—
But the rumseller-he slept quietly
In his chamber of gilded pride,
For little he cared how his victims fared,
Or whether they lived or died!
Oh! the old, old strain with its old refrain,
Of agony, death, and woe!—
Oh! the bitter tears that, through all the years,
Have been flowing, and ever flow!
Must the ghastly tragedy never cease?
Will Manhood never awake?
And, by God's great might made strong for the right.
Stand up for Humanity's sake,
And wipe the horrible stain away
From his country and his home—
The dark, ensangnined, loathsome stain
Of the merciless monster, Rum?
TIME FOR BED
"Time for bed!"—the weary day
With its toils has passed away
Sol has wrapped his forehead bright
In the curtains of the night,
And his glorious lamp again
Lowered behind the western main
Leaving all heaven's pure expanse
Radiant with his parting glance
Just a few, faint stars are seen
Ranged around the midnight queen—
A select and glorious band
Who alone may waiting stand
Around the monarch of the night,
Bearing up their urns of light,
Her majestic path to cheer
Till the shadows disappear.
"Time for bed!" the folded flowers
Hang their heads in forest bowers;
Nestled in each downy nest
Day's sweet songsters calmly rest;
And the night-bird's plaintive hymn
Echoes through the forest dim;
Dew-drops on the birchen-bough
In the star-beams sparkle now,
Scarce a zephyr stirs the rose
So profound is Earth's repose.
"Time for bed!" put by thy books,
Learner, with thy studious looks;—
Poet, lay the pen away,
Candle-light will spoil thy lay;—
Leave it till the morning hours
Come with sunshine to the flowers,—
Leave it till from shrub and tree
Birds pour forth their minstrelsy,—
Till the sun on wood and wold
Turns the drops of dew to gold,—
Till the bee comes forth to sip
Nectar from the flow'rets lip,—
Till the light-winged zephyrs wake
Dancing ripples on the lake,
And the cloudlets in the height
Don their fleecy robes of white;—
Then, with graceful Euterpe,
Seek the spreading greenwood tree,
And with joy, and light, and love,
All around thee and above,
Tune thy lyre to praiseful mirth
With all happy things of Earth!
"Time for bed!"—thou man of toil,
Why consume the midnight oil?—
Night was made for slumbers blest,
Thou art weary, therefore rest!
"Time for bed!"—poor "Martha," thou
Long enough hast labored now;
All the day's bright hours are numbered,
Yet art thou "with toiling cumbered."
Lay that tedious work away
Till the blest return of day,—
Thou art care-worn and oppressed,
Thou art weary "Martha," rest!
"Time for bed!"—shut up the stove,
To its place the table move,
Lay the books into their case,
Wheel the sofa to its place,
Wind the clock, brush up the floor,
Close the shutters, lock the door,
That will do—put out the light,
Toil and trouble, all good night!
FROM THE OLD TO THE NEW
LINES FOR THE NEW YEAR
I hear the beat of the unresting tide
On either shore as swiftly on I glide
With eager haste the narrow channel o'er,
Which links the floods behind with those before.
I hear behind me as I onward glide,
Faint, farewell voices blending with the tide,
While from beyond, now near, now far away,
Come stronger voices chiding each delay;
And drowning, oft, with wild, discordant burst,
The melancholy minor of the first
"Farewell! farewell!—ye leave us far behind you!"—
Tis thus the bright-winged Hours sigh from the Past—
"Ye leave us, and the coming ones will find you
Still vainly dreaming they will ever last,—
Still trifling with the gifts all fresh and glowing,
Each in its turn will scatter in your way,—
Still chasing airy phantoms, though well-knowing
That, ere you grasp them, they will melt away—
Farewell! farewell!"
"Haste! haste! haste!"—
Thus from the Future the voices ring—
"The air is balmy with breath of spring,
The waters sleep in the morning light,
The storms are hushed, and the skies are bright,
Haste! haste! haste!
"Isles of beauty and bloom are here,
Groves, whose leafage is never sere,
Teeming harvests of boundless wealth,
Peace, and plenty, and buoyant health—
Haste! haste! haste!
"Joy-bells ring in the sunny air,
Mirth and music are everywhere,—
Bend to the oars, and away, away
While the ripples dance and the breezes play—
Haste! haste! haste!"
"Farewell! farewell!—ye leave us far behind you—
Us, the lost Hours that would have blessed you so!
Yet, as ye leave us, let our strains remind you
That we, not empty-handed, Heavenward go.
Records we bear of all the good we brought you,—
Of all we offered,-all that ye refused,—
Of all the lessons we in patience taught you,—
Of wasted time, of privilege abused;
To God's tribunal we those records bear,
Sometime, remember, they will meet you there—
Farewell! farewell!"
THE VOICE OF SPRING
I heard a voice—twas the voice of Spring,
Up from the rivulets murmuring,
Singing of freedom,—thus the lay
On the breezes floated away—
"Joy! joy!—the chains that bound us
Now disappear,
Sunlight pours its treasures round us,
Warm, warm and clear,
Onward, speeding onward
To the bright main,
Chainless, free, unfettered,
Are we again!"
I heard a voice—'twas the voice of Spring,
Out from the hill sides whispering,
And a tender strain from the woodland lone
Blended with it in murmurous tone—
"Joy! joy!—the world is waking
From her long rest,—
Earth a glow of warmth is taking
To her chill breast,—
Tiny flower germs, hidden
Long out of sight,
Stealing forth unbidden,
Seek the warm light!"
I heard a voice—'twas the voice of Spring,
Over the waters wandering,
As to the wilds came the song birds back,
Singing still in their homeward track—
"Joy! joy!—we're home returning
To the free hills,
From our long and far sojourning,
Now, to the rills,
To the echoing forest.
Orchard and plain,
With our old-time music,
Speed we again!"
I heard a voice—'twas the voice of Spring,—
Nature, all Nature awoke to sing;
And every valley, and grove, and plain
Had its share in the welcome strain:—
"Joy! joy!—the chains are broken,
Spring smiles again,—
Joy for every blessed token
Of her glad reign,—
Joy on all the waters,
Joy on each shore.—
Sunlight, song, sweet odors,
Welcome once more!"
HONOR TO LABOR
HONOR TO LABOR!—it giveth health;
Honor to labor!—it bringeth wealth;
Honor to labor!—our glorious land
Displayeth its triumphs on every hand.
It has smoothed the plains, laid the forests low,
And brightened the vales with the harvest's glow,—
Reared cities vast with their marts of trade,
Where erst undisturbed lay the woodland shade,—
Brought up from the depths of the teeming mine,
Its treasured stores in the light to shine,—
Sent Commerce forth on his tireless wings
In search of all precious and goodly things—
Forth to the ice-bound Northern seas,
And to bright isles fanned by the Southern breeze,
Where the Orange deepens its sunset dyes,
And the Cocoa ripens 'neath glowing skies,—
To the sunny islands of Austral climes,—
To lands undreamt of in elder times,—
Till every region, and clime, and zone,
Has yielded its treasures to bless our own.
Honor to Labor!—it diveth deep
To dim sea-caves where bright treasures sleep,
And dareth with curious quest explore
The ancient wonders of Ocean's floor.
It fearless roams over Deserts vast,
Where destruction rides on the Simoom's blast,
And trackless sands have for ages frowned
O'er cities in ancient song renowned.
It climbs where the dazzling glaciers lie,
Changeless and cold, 'neath a glowing sky,
And leaves the trace of its triumphs proud
Above the regions of storm and cloud.
The Ocean, once an untravelled waste,
By feet adventurous never passed,
Spread forth to the solemn skies alone
Its restless waters to man unknown.
Imagination, with eager quest,
Went forth o'er its bosom with vague unrest,
To loneliest regions devoid of light,
Where dark Cimmerii dwelt in night,—
Or peopled its realms, undiscovered, lone,
With phantoms of horror and shapes unknown.
But Labor came, and with kindling glance
Boldly he traversed the far expanse,
Scatt'ring the shadows of ancient night,
And lifting a glad New World to light.
Now, a realm of life is the glorious Sea—
A peopled realm of the bold and free—
Where the proud ship glides like a thing of life,
And laughs at the storms and the billows' strife,—
Vast highway of nations, above whose deeps
Commerce with tireless navies sweeps,
And Life goes forth in its glad unrest,
Buoyantly treading the waves' white crest.
Honor to Labor!—his strong right hand
Old, frightful chasms has boldly spanned,
And hung his teeming thoroughfares high
'Twixt rushing torrent and bending sky.
He has harnessed Steam to the flying car,
And sent it from ocean to ocean afar,—
Pierced strong-ribbed mountains that barred his way,
And oped through their caverns a broad highway,—
Taught the lightning to carry his messages forth
From West to East, and from South to North,
And flash his thoughts through the depths profound
Of Ocean, the Earth's circumference round,—
Made Light his servant to do his will—
With faultless pencil and subtlest skill
Limning the features most dear in life,
Of friend, or husband, or child, or wife,
And compressing into a single hour
The work of months of artistic power.
Honor to Labor!—with steady eye
He has fearlessly traversed the midnight sky,
And followed the mazy, perplexing dance
Of planets and moons thro' the far expanse,—
Their orbits, periods, weight and size,
Studied with heedful and cautious eyes,
And forced the haughty, imperial sun
To answer his inquiries one by one.
He has tracked the comet's erratic flight
Through the silent star-fields of primal night,—
Walked through the depths of old nebulae
With flashing glance and with footstep free,
And seen spin round him in wildering flight
Systems and suns, while the infinite
Of God's great universe stretched away
Farther far than e'en thought might stray
"Honor to Labor!"—the mariner sings,
As forth to the breezes his sails he flings;—
"It has made us lords of the boundless deep—
Fearlessly over the waves we sweep!"
"Honor to Labor!"—the traveller cries,
As forth in the rushing tram he flies;—
"We may rival the speed of the bird's swift wing
As he joyously soars thro' the skies of Spring,
And the fetterless wind on its pinions free,
Is scarcely more fleet in its course than we!"
"Honor to Labor!"—the student cries,
As he gazes around him with joyful eyes,—
"Honor to Labor!—the teeming press
Pours forth its treasures the world to bless!
From the pictured pages where childhood's eye
Findeth a world of bright imagery,
To the massive tome 'mid whose treasures vast,
Lie the time-dimmed records of ages past,
We may wander, and revel, yet ever find
Supplies exhaustless for heart and mind
We may turn to the Past—to the ages fled—
And converse hold with the gifted dead,—
Old climes of historic fame explore,
And gather the gems of their buried lore,—
With Prophet-bards seek inspiring themes,
Or muse alone by old fabled streams,—
With the Poet take our enraptured flight,
And woo the Muse on Parnassus' height,—
Take fair Philosophy by the hand,
And roam with her through her native land,—
May win from the God-inspired of Earth
Heavenly treasures of priceless worth,—
Till the mental stores of all ages flown,
And all gifted minds, we have made our own.".
Honor to Labor of body or mind,
That hath for its object the good of mankind!
The Farmer, who cheerily ploughs the soil,
And gathers the fruit of his hopeful toil,—
The strong Mechanic, whose manly brow
Weareth of labor the healthful glow,—
The bold Inventor, beneath whose hands
The useful engine completed stands,—
The Artist, who, with unrivalled skill,
Creations of loveliness forms at will,—
The Teacher, who sows in the minds of youth
Seeds of precious undying truth,—
The pale-faced Student, who, worn with toil,
Consumes o'er his studies the midnight oil,—
The man of Science, with earnest mind,
Who toils to enlighten and bless mankind—
To themselves, their race, and their country true.
Honor, all honor, to such is due!
THE MISER
The night was dark and dreary,
And the autumn-wind went by
With a sound like Sorrow's wailing
In its sadly mournful cry;—
The yew trees, old and drooping,
Shook in the angry blast,
And the moon looked, pale and tearful,
Through the clouds that hurried past.
In a dreary room and fireless,
With mouldy walls and damp,
A grey, old man was seated
Beside a flickering lamp;—
An old man, worn and wasted,
With bent and shivering form,
And haggard looks, sat trembling
At the moaning of the storm.
The casements, old and creaking,
Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
His treasures from his grasp,
And unseen fingers tight'ning
On his throat their icy clasp.
Again the strong wind rattled
The broken window-pane,
And the dying taper wavered
In the rude blast yet again—
For one brief instant wavered,
Then paled its sickly light,
And the shuddering wretch was shrouded
In impenetrable night.
The dull, grey light of morning
Illumed the mountain-height,
And Earth lay, cold and shiv'ring,
In the blanched, autumnal light,
But a sunbeam struggled faintly
Through the Miser's broken shed,
And lit the pale, set features
Of the still, unshrouded dead.
For there, alone, and trembling
With the horrors of affright,
He had met the king of terrors
'Mid the darkness of the night;
And with gold enough to satiate
A monarch's haughty pride,
In fear, and rags, and misery
Of want the wretch had died!
BROKEN
I.
Broken!
It's only a ring—a plain, old ring,
Worn down to a thread almost—
Fling it away—the useless thing!
What value now can it boast?—
Fling it away!
Yet stay!—oh stay
Ere you cast it away!
There's a tale of the vanished years
That ever will cling,
To that broken ring,
That hallows and endears—
Oh stay!
In vain!—in vain!—What matters it now
That tenderest memories cling
To that thread of gold so wasted and old—
Who cares for a broken ring?—
Fling it away!
II.
Broken!
It's only a vase—an old, stone vase—
Ancient and out of style—
That has stood for years in the chimney place,
Provoking many a smile—
Throw it away!
Yet stay!—that vase
Held honored place
In the sight of prince and peer
And the flowers it held
Were gathered of old
By the lovely and the dear!—
Oh stay!
In vain!—In vain!—What matters it now
How honored was once its place!
It is broken, and old, and the hearts are cold
That cherished the old stone vase—
Throw it away!
III.
Broken!
It's only a promise—as light as air—
Though earnestly, solemnly given,
Made to be broken—yet who should care?—
Do you think it was heard in Heaven?—
Break it to day!
Yet stay!—that breath
Is a blast of death
To an innocent human heart!
Unsay the word,
For God has heard!
And He taketh the wronged one's part—-
Break it not to-day!
In vain!—in vain!—What matters it now?
It was only a breath—no more!
A faithless promise—a traitor's vow—
Such things have happened before—
It's broken to-day!
IV.
Broken!
It's only a heart—a human heart—
That has throbbed for years and years,
With the burning pain and the cruel smart
Whose agony knows no tears—
Cast it away'
Yet stay!—oh stay!
A father, grey
And sorrowful, prayed for her long
And a mother's love
Bore to God above
The tale of her poor childs wrong!—
Cast it not away!
In vain!—'Tis a story old and worn—
This story of falsehood's art—
Of the harsh world's withering blight and scorn,—
Who cares for the broken heart
That's been cast away?
"TO OUR PARENTS"
WRITTEN BY REQUEST, FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING
Full fifty years together—
Father and mother dear—
Through pleasant summer weather,
Or wintry tempests drear,—
Thro' sunshine and thro' shadow,
Oft travel sore and tried,
Yet strong to aid each other,
You've journeyed side by side
A few brief years of climbing,—
One glad, exultant glance
At the sun bright world around you,
At the smiling heaven's expanse,—
And then, the slow descending
Into the vale below,
Where the light with shade is blending,
And the deamy waters flow
Full fifty years of travel—
Then, on your worn staves rest,
And welcome home your children,
And many an honored guest,—
We come to give you greeting,—
We come to bring you cheer,—
To hail with glad rejoicing
This fiftieth wedded year!
We know your hearts are asking
For one who is not here—
Whose voice was sweetest music,
Whose smile was very dear,
But the blessed Heaven that holds him
Is very near to you,
And the warm love that enfolds him,
Enfolds his parents too.
Then let the tears we're shedding
Have naught of grief's alloy;—
And let this GOLDEN WEDDING
Be one of tranquil joy.
God bless our honored father
God bless our mother dear!
And a thousand, thousand welcomes
To this fiftieth wedded year.
UNDER THE ROD
"Be Still, and know that I am God!"
Be silent, Soul!—though dark thy path and dreary,
And wild with storm, yet what is that to thee?
Though thou art faint, and desolate, and weary,
Thy God hath willed thus,—so let it be!
Murmurs the mountain oak when storms assail it,
And warring tempests wildly shake its form?
Firmer within the earth its root it striketh,
And gathers strength and vigor from the storm.
Be silent, Soul!—the hand of God is on thee!
And, as a skillful gard'ner, from the vine
Doth lop away each worthless branch and barren,
So He would lop each fruitless bough of thine.
Ah! thou art earth-bound, prone, and lowly creeping,
clinging to things too frail to be thy stay;
Jesus, with watchful care His vineyard keeping,
Would lift thee up to sunshine and the day.
Be silent, Soul!—thou'rt not thy own;—the Saviour
With blood and anguish bought thee on the tree!
Why murmur, then, that He should seek to make thee
Holy, and pure, and fit with Him to be?
This world is not thy home!—cease thy weak clinging
To its frail reeds, O thou whose mansion blest
Is where Life's river flows with ceaseless singing
Through the fair Paradise where angels rest.
Be silent, Soul—in the great heavenly Temple,
The Master-Builder hath a niche for thee;
And thou must pass beneath His forming chisel,
If thou a goodly, polished stone wouldst be.
Bless God for every stroke that severs from thee
The gross and earthy, bringing to the light
The intrinsic worth His Spirit hath wrought in thee,—
The gem His hand would polish and make bright
Be silent, Soul!—thy God is ever near thee,
Whether thy path 'mid storm or sunshine lie,—
Whether the morning's tender radiance cheer thee,
Or rayless darkness veil the midnight sky!
What matter though thy pathway lone and dreary
Should all with weary, trembling feet be trod?
Enough for thee to know, thy Lord is near thee,
And the rough road leads up to Heaven and God!
THE WHITE STONE CANOE
AN INDIAN TRADITION; VERSIFIED FROM SCHOOLCRAFT
It was a day of festive-mirth,
And bright the Indian wigwams shone,
For 'twas a chieftain's bridal-day,
And gladness dwelt in every tone;
But ere the glow of sunset hours
Upon the western hills was shed,
Deep sadness rested on those bowers—
The bride was numbered with the dead.
Days passed; and still beside her tomb
The stricken lover bowed his head;
And-nightly, through the forest's gloom
The stars beheld him with his dead.
In vain did grey-haired chieftains urge
The youthful hunter to the chase;—
He heard, yet heeded not their words,
For grief had chained him to the place.
They laid his war-club by his side,
His bow and arrows, too, they brought,
And sang of glorious deeds of might
That stately chiefs of yore had wrought;
But listlessly he heard their songs,
Flung back his bow with sullen pride,
And by the silent grave sat down
Where they had laid his youthful bride.
But pleasant memories came at length
Of what he learned in boyhood's day,
Of a bright path that led from earth
O'er the blue mountains far away
To the best land where spirits dwell,
The home of GHEEZHA MONEDO, [1]
Where parted loved ones meet again
Beyond the reach of pain and woe.
Then from the ground the warrior rose,
And bade the sleeping dust adieu,
And started for the spirit-shore
With the bright southern skies in view;—
Forests, and hills, and vales, and streams,
In his quick flight he left behind;—
Earth's stores of rare and lovely things
Had nought to charm the wand'rer's mind.
The snow, that lay upon the earth
When he forsook his native hills,
Had slowly melted from his path,
And sought the bed of crystal rills;
The woods assumed a gayer hue,
The flowers put on the bloom of spring,
The clear sky shone with brighter blue,
And birds sped by on joyous wing.
By these blest signs the warrior knew
That he was travelling aright;
For old Tradition taught him so,
And on he pressed with fresh delight.
At length the shining path he spied
Winding amid a beauteous grove,
Up to the summit of a hill
That rose the verdant plain above.
High on the summit stood a lodge
To which this mystic pathway led;—
Thither, with undeclining zeal
And ardent hopes, the warrior sped.
An old man met him at the door,
With piercing eyes and long, white hair,
Who took the wand'rer by the hand,
And kindly bade him welcome there.
"I know thy quest!" the old man said,
"Leave here thy arrows and thy bow;
Thy body, too, thou must forsake—
Thither thy soul alone can go.
Thou seest yon gulf, and far away
Beyond, a region bright and fair,
Whose blue hills in the distance rise,
Warrior, the land of souls is there'
"My lodge the gate of entrance is,—
I'll guard whatever thou leav'st behind,
And thou may'st hasten on thy way,
A joyous spirit unconfined."
Thus saying, the aged man withdrew;
And the freed traveller sped away—
As though his feet were changed to wings—
Upon his fair, but shadowy way.
Shadowy indeed, for all he passed—
Trees, plants, and flowers no substance wore,
And birds and beasts were but the souls
Of those that dwelt on earth before;—
Yet birds swept by on joyous wing,
And, pausing, gazed the timid deer
With fearless look, as if to say,
"We have no strife or bloodshed here!"
Onward he went, till, just before,
A beauteous lake appeared in view;
And at the water's edge he spied
A snow-white, shining, stone canoe.
Lightly the warrior sprang within,
And grasped the paddle by his side;
When turning, lo, beside him sat
The spirit of his beauteous bride
She sat within a light canoe,
And sweetly beckoned him away
To a green isle that, like a gem,
Amidst the sparkling waters lay;
High leaped the waves, yet on they pressed,
Wreath after wreath of foam they passed,—
Thus gliding o'er the water's breast
They reached the wished-for shore at last.
Together o'er those verdant plains,
'Mid fadeless flowers the lovers walked;
And of their native hills and streams,
And forest-homes, they freely talked.
There were no storms, no chilling winds,
No frost, no blight, to dim the flowers,
But never-fading summer reigned
Amid those calm and peaceful bowers.
None hungered there—no death, no pain,
No blighted hope, no sleepless fear;
No mourner sorrowed o'er the dead,
And no bereaved one dropped a tear;
Serenest skies were spread above,
Bright flowers were blooming all around
And every eye was filled with love,
And music dwelt in every sound.
"Here let me stay!" the warrior cried,
"On this secluded, happy shore;
Here, with my loved and beauteous bride,
Where bitter partings are no more!"
Thus spake the youth, but, ere the words
Had died away upon the breeze,
There came a low, sweet spirit-voice
Murm'ring among the sheltering trees.
"Warrior!"—thus spake the breezy voice—
"Return unto thy native shore;
Resume again thy mortal frame,
And mingle with thy tribe once more.
Listen to him who keeps the gate,
And he will tell thee what to do;
Obey his voice, return to earth,
And virtue's pleasant paths pursue.
"Thy time to die has not arrived;
But let each gloomy thought be still,
Thy maiden waits thee on this shore,
Subject no more to pain or ill!
In never-fading youth arrayed.
Here shall ye dwell in peace at last,
When thou hast done thy work on earth,
And life's brief wanderings are past.
"Return!—thou yet must lead thy tribe
Through many a wild, adventurous scene;
But when a good old age is reached,
And thou their leader long hast been,
Then will I call thee to thy rest
In this bright island of the skies,
Where thou mayst mingle with the blest,
While long, succeeding ages rise!"
The chieftain woke—'twas fancy all,
The bright revealings of a dream;—
Around him still the forest stood
Beneath the cold moon's placid beam.
Up from the ground he proudly rose,
Took up his war-club and his bow,
Quelled in his soul the bitter floods
Of disappointment and of woe,—
And, turning from the grave of her
Who erst was all the world to him,
He wiped away the gathering tears
That made his eagle-glances dim;
And with a proud, majestic step
He slowly from the grave withdrew,
Resolved to hope and labor on,
With better prospects in his view
[Footnote 1: Merciful Spirit.]
GONE BEFORE
(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)
Thou art but gone before—
Gone to that unknown shore
Toward which my feet are journeying swiftly on
Thou hast but laid thy head
First with the dreamless dead,
I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.
Methinks 'twas sweet to die,
Ere childhood's purity
Had been polluted by sin's withering breath;
Ere Care's pale, haggard mien
Thy laughing eye had seen,
Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!
We weep—yet thou art blest!
We mourn—but thou'rt at rest!
Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!
Not that thy race is run,
Thy brief life-journey done,
And thou departed with thy Lord to be.
O no!—yet we may weep,
That sin, so strong, so deep
A root within our tempted souls should have;
That we, with mortal fear,
Still trembling, doubting here,
Should cling to Earth in terror of the grave!
To Earth, whose very bloom
Speaks of the dust, the tomb,—
Whose fairest blossoms round our footsteps die,—
Whose hopes are fraught with fears,—
Whose smiles are washed with tears,—
Whose sweetest songs are burdened with a sigh!
Sleep on, thou early blest!
No cares can mar thy rest,
No years of grief and trial are for thee;
No blighted hopes, no fears,
No wasted, sin-cursed years—
Joy for thee, little one, thou'rt free-aye, free!
Now with the peaceful dead
Lay we thy beauteous head,
No mourner's dirge for thee shall chanted be!
So may we rest at last,
When all our toils are past,
And rise to tune an angel's harp with thee!
JOHANNA
(HIAWATHA MEASURE.)
'Twas a balmy day in Autumn,
In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn,
When from out the quiet woodland
Sounds of rustling leaves came only—
Leaves that floated softly earthward—
And the streamlets had a murmur
Such as wanders through our visions
In the hushed and starry midnight—
Low, soft murmur, full of music.
With the small hand of her darling
Clasped in her's, there came a mother
To an Artist—fondly asking
For the picture of her pet-lamb—
Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life,
Full of merry, ringing laughter—
Laughter that went up unceasing
Like the happy chime of streamlets
Singing thro' some mountain valley,—
Like the bird-song in the forest
In the time of early roses,—
Like the tinkle of sweet waters
Dripping o'er a marble fountain.
And the child's glad eyes grew brighter
As she saw her own sweet image
From its little case look smiling
Back upon her radiant features—
Saw the clustering curls fall softly
Round the peach-blow neck and bosom,—
Saw the lips, two tiny rose-buds,
And the scarce-shown pearls that edged them,—
And the quivering, laughing lashes
Of the eager eyes were lifted
In glad wonder, as she murmured
"Oh, it's pretty!—ain't it, ma ma?"
Came another day in Autumn—
Gloomy, sad, tempestuous Autumn—
And from out the moaning forest
Came the sound of rushing tempests
As they dashed the sere leaves downward
From the darkly tossing branches,—
And the turbid streams were chafing
With the rush of swollen waters
That, in tones all hoarse and angry,
To the rude winds made replying.
With the hot hand of her darling
Clasped in hers, that same fond mother
O'er a little couch was bending,
Where her little lamb lay moaning
In unquiet fevered slumbers.
Oft the blue-veined lids would tremble
O'er the half-veiled eyes, and sadly—
Painfully the lips would quiver,
As the sobbing breath came slowly
From the scarcely heaving bosom
Ah! that little lamb was treading
'Mid the shadows of the valley!—
And her spirit-ear, affrighted,
Just had caught the nearer murmur
Of the death-stream cold and sullen
Haply, wond'ring at the darkness
That was slowly settling round her.
But it passed, and o'er those features
Slowly broke a smile, so holy
That we deemed the angels gathered
Round her in the gloomy valley.
Then the life-light gently faded
From those eyes, as fades the sunset
From the peaceful summer heavens,—
Stiller grew the little bosom,—
And the sobbing breath grew fainter,—
And the fading smile more sweetly
Played around those lips, till slumber—
Strange, deep slumber slowly settled
In its marble stillness o'er her.
Ah!—that little tear-stained image
Now, is all that's left thee, mother,
Of thy little, dark-eyed daughter!
Ever, as it smiles upon thee
From its tiny case, how keenly
Will thy heart-strings thrill with anguish.
As that voice again comes to thee,
And again those sweet lips murmur—
"Oh it's pretty!—ain't it, ma-ma?"
SANZAS
"Whom have I in heaven but thee?"
'Twere nought to me, yon glorious arch of night,
Decked with the gorgeous blazonry of heaven,
If, to my faith, amid its splendors bright,
No vision of the Eternal One were given;
I could but view a dreary, soulless waste—
A vast expanse of solitude unknown;—
More cheerless for the splendors o'er it cast,
For all its grandeur more intensely lone.
'Twere nought to me, this ever-changing scene
Of earthly beauty, sunshine, and delight—
The wood's deep shadows and the valley's green,
Morn's tender glow, and sunset's splendors bright—
Nought, if my Father smiled not from the sky,
The cloud, the flower, the landscape, and the leaf;
My soul would pine 'mid Earth's vain pageantry,
And droop in hopeless orphanage and grief.
'Twere nought to me, the Ocean's far expanse,
If His perfections were not mirrored there,
Hopeless across the unmeasured waste I'd glance,
And clasp my hands in anguish, not in prayer,
Nought, Nature's anthem, ever swelling up
From Nature's myriad voices, for the hymn
Would breathe nor love, nor gratitude, nor hope,
Robbed of the tones that speak to me of Him.
This wondrous universe, how less than nought
Without my God—how desolate and drear!
A mockery Earth with her vain splendors fraught—
A gilded pageant every rolling sphere;
The noonday sun with all his glories crowned,
A sickly flame, would glimmer faint and pale;
And all Earth's melodies, their sweetness drowned,
Be but the utt'rance of a funeral wail!
CANADA
Fair land of peace!—to Britain's rule and throne
Adherent still, yet happier than alone,
And free as happy, and as brave as free,
Proud are thy children—justly proud, of thee!
Thou hast no streams renowned in classic lore,
No vales where fabled heroes moved of yore,
No hills where Poesy enraptured stood,
No mythic fountains, no enchanted wood;
But unadorned, rough, cold, and often stern,
The careless eye to other lands might turn,
And seek, where Nature's bloom is more intense,
Softer delights to charm the eye of sense.
But we who know thee, proudly point the hand
Where thy broad rivers roll serenely grand—
Where, in still beauty 'neath our northern sky,
Thy lordly lakes in solemn grandeur lie,—
Where old Niagara's awful voice has given
The flood's deep anthem to the ear of heaven
Through the long ages of the vanished past,
Through Summer's bloom, and Winter's angry blast—
Nature's proud utterance of unwearied song,
Now, as at first, majestic, solemn, strong,
And ne'er to fail, till the archangel's cry
Shall still the million tones of earth and sky,
And send the shout to ocean's farthest shore—
"Be hushed ye voices—time shall be no more!"
Few are the years that have sufficed to change
This whole broad land by transformation strange;
Once, far and wide, the unbroken forests spread
Their lonely wastes, mysterious and dread—
Forests, whose echoes never had been stirred
By the sweet music of an English word,—
Where only rang the red-browed hunter's yell,
And the wolfs howl thro' the dark, sunless dell.
Now, fruitful fields and waving orchard-trees
Spread their rich treasures to the summer breeze.
Yonder, in queenly pride, a city stands,
Whence stately vessels speed to distant lands;—
Here smiles a hamlet thro' embowering green,
And there, the statelier village-spires are seen;—
Here, by the brook-side, clacks the noisy mill,
There, the white homestead nestles to the hill;—
The modest school-house here flings wide its door
To smiling crowds that seek its simple lore;—
There, Learning's statelier fane of massive walls
Wooes the young aspirant to classic halls;
And bids him in her hoarded treasures find
The gathered wealth of every gifted mind.
Here, too, we see, in primal freshness still,
The cool, calm forest nodding on the hill;
And o'er the quiet valley, clustering green,
The tall trees linked in brotherhood serene,
Fattening from year to year the soil below,
Which shall in time with golden harvests glow;
And yield more wealth to Labor's sturdy hands,
Than fabled Eldorado's yellow sands.
Where once, with thundering din, in years by-gone,
The heavy waggon labored slowly on
Thro' dreary swamps by rudest causeways spanned,
With shaggy cedars dark on either hand,
Where wolves oft howled in nightly chorus drear,
And boding owls mocked the lone traveller's fear,
Now, o'er the stable Rail the Iron-horse
Sweeps proudly on in his exultant course,
Bearing in his impetuous flight along,
The freighted car with all its living throng,
At speed which rivals in its onward flight,
The bird's free wing thro' azure fields of light.
Wealth of the forest, treasures of the hills,
Majestic rivers, fertilizing rills,
Expansive lakes, rich vales, and sunny plains,
Vast fields where yet primeval nature reigns,
Exhaustless treasures of the teeming soil—
These loudly call to enterprising Toil
Nor vainly call. From lands beyond the sea,
Strong men have turned, O Canada, to thee,—
Turned from their father's graves, their native shore,
Smiling to scorn the flood's tempestuous roar,
Gladly to find where broader, ampler room
Allured their steps, a happy, Western home.
The toil-worn peasant looked with eager eyes
O'er the blue waters, to those distant skies;
Where no one groaned 'neath unrequited toil,
Where the strong laborer might own the soil
On which he stood; and, in his manhood's strength,
Smile to behold his growing fields at length;—
Where his brave sons might easily obtain
The lore for which their father sighed in vain,
And, in a few short seasons, take their stand
Among the learned and gifted of the land,
Could ocean-barriers avail to keep
That yearning heart in lands beyond the deep?
No!—the sweet vision of a home—his own,
Haunted his days of toil, his midnights lone;
Till, gath'ring up his little earthly store,
Boldly he sought this far-off Western shore,
In a few years to realize far more
Than in his wildest dreams he hoped before.
We cannot boast those skies of milder ray,
'Neath which the orange mellows day by day,
Where the Magnolia spreads its snowy flowers,
And Nature revels in perennial bowers,—
Here, Winter holds his long and solemn reign,
And madly sweeps the desolated plain,—
But Health and Vigor hail the wintry strife,
With all the buoyant glow of happy life,
And, by the blazing chimney's cheerful hearth,
Smile at the blast 'mid songs and household mirth.
Here Freedom looks o'er all those broad domains,
And hears no heavy clank of servile chains,
Here man, no matter what his skin may be,
May stand erect and proudly say "I'M FREE!"
No crouching slaves cower in our busy marts,
With straining eyes and anguish riven hearts!
The beam that gilds alike the palace walls
And lowly hut, with genial radiance falls
On peer and peasant,—but the lowliest here
Walks in the sunshine, free as is a peer.
Proudly he stands with muscles strong and free,
The serf—the slave of no man, doomed to be.
His own, the arm the heavy axe that wields,—
His own, the hands that till the summer fields,—
His own, the babes that prattle in the door,—
His own, the wife that treads the cottage floor,
All the sweet ties of life to him are sure,
All the proud rights of MANHOOD are secure!
Fair land of peace' Oh mayest thou ever be,
Even as now, the land of LIBERTY!—
Treading serenely the bright upward road,
Honored of nations and approved of God,—
On thy fair brow emblazoned clear and bright,
FREEDOM, FRATERNITY, AND EQUAL RIGHT!