I arisesometimes in the night-time,And go out ’neath the stars alone,In the dim silence of night-time,When the skies are tender of tone.In the holy silence of natureI calm my anxious soul,Sometimes by the hard day grown weary,And beyond my will to control.And I go where the waves’ low murmurSoundeth ever along the dim shore,And I’m soothed by the voice of the waters,And peace cometh unto me once moreWhen the winds are caressing the roses,And there stealeth an answering sighFrom the dew-bespangled foliageTo the wanderer passing by.I stand on the bridge of the streamlet,Where we met in the long ago;Where we met, and where we two partedIn the twilight’s silvery glow.I listen again for her coming,Though ’tis only an empty dream;All I hear is the night wind sighing,And the rippling of the stream.Then I pass where the vale is sleeping,O’er the emerald moonlit hill,And gain the awesome shadowsOf the forest deep and still.And through the still gloom and the distanceI hear the faint, far-off callOf elfin and strange phantom voices—On my ear they dreamily fall.O holy silence of nature!I am calmed with a pure delight.Hush! for man’s voice would but marThe harmony of the night.All sinless the planets are glowing,Penetrating the vast, far voidsOf the mystery of creationBeyond the lone asteroids.Subdued, and again submissiveTo whatever’s in store for me,I strive to be uncomplaining,Though beset with adversity.And thus, when the spirit is weary,My strength kindly nature restores;Through her vast illimitable chamberMy calm soul in ecstasy soars.
I arisesometimes in the night-time,And go out ’neath the stars alone,In the dim silence of night-time,When the skies are tender of tone.In the holy silence of natureI calm my anxious soul,Sometimes by the hard day grown weary,And beyond my will to control.And I go where the waves’ low murmurSoundeth ever along the dim shore,And I’m soothed by the voice of the waters,And peace cometh unto me once moreWhen the winds are caressing the roses,And there stealeth an answering sighFrom the dew-bespangled foliageTo the wanderer passing by.I stand on the bridge of the streamlet,Where we met in the long ago;Where we met, and where we two partedIn the twilight’s silvery glow.I listen again for her coming,Though ’tis only an empty dream;All I hear is the night wind sighing,And the rippling of the stream.Then I pass where the vale is sleeping,O’er the emerald moonlit hill,And gain the awesome shadowsOf the forest deep and still.And through the still gloom and the distanceI hear the faint, far-off callOf elfin and strange phantom voices—On my ear they dreamily fall.O holy silence of nature!I am calmed with a pure delight.Hush! for man’s voice would but marThe harmony of the night.All sinless the planets are glowing,Penetrating the vast, far voidsOf the mystery of creationBeyond the lone asteroids.Subdued, and again submissiveTo whatever’s in store for me,I strive to be uncomplaining,Though beset with adversity.And thus, when the spirit is weary,My strength kindly nature restores;Through her vast illimitable chamberMy calm soul in ecstasy soars.
I arisesometimes in the night-time,And go out ’neath the stars alone,In the dim silence of night-time,When the skies are tender of tone.In the holy silence of natureI calm my anxious soul,Sometimes by the hard day grown weary,And beyond my will to control.
And I go where the waves’ low murmurSoundeth ever along the dim shore,And I’m soothed by the voice of the waters,And peace cometh unto me once moreWhen the winds are caressing the roses,And there stealeth an answering sighFrom the dew-bespangled foliageTo the wanderer passing by.
I stand on the bridge of the streamlet,Where we met in the long ago;Where we met, and where we two partedIn the twilight’s silvery glow.I listen again for her coming,Though ’tis only an empty dream;All I hear is the night wind sighing,And the rippling of the stream.
Then I pass where the vale is sleeping,O’er the emerald moonlit hill,And gain the awesome shadowsOf the forest deep and still.And through the still gloom and the distanceI hear the faint, far-off callOf elfin and strange phantom voices—On my ear they dreamily fall.
O holy silence of nature!I am calmed with a pure delight.Hush! for man’s voice would but marThe harmony of the night.All sinless the planets are glowing,Penetrating the vast, far voidsOf the mystery of creationBeyond the lone asteroids.
Subdued, and again submissiveTo whatever’s in store for me,I strive to be uncomplaining,Though beset with adversity.And thus, when the spirit is weary,My strength kindly nature restores;Through her vast illimitable chamberMy calm soul in ecstasy soars.
Thereare many ways in this feverish lifeWhere the rocks are grim and bare,With no soil for tender plants and flowers,Nor rain nor dew is there;Where the sterile rocks are bleak and bare,And the skies are shrouded and gray,With sweeping winds from a desolate sea,Where there’s never a summer day.And a burning sun in a desert land,And the winter stern and cold,And the wandering feet without a home,And weary and poor and old;And the poor in heart where all love hath died,And the dreary, haunting years,And the friendship dead, and the broken home,And regret and pain and tears.And the hopes that died, and the broken vowsThat severed far and wide,And the toilworn hands, and the sad unrest,And the loss on every side;And the favored ones ’neath sunny skiesThat dream there the hours away,And the struggling poor in barren lands,Where sad day follows day.And the ships that sail over angry seas,And nevermore reach the shore;And the aching hearts, and the weary watchFor the loved that come no more.Ah! I cannot still all these strange, sad thoughts,Nor stay these falling tears;The lonesome way is rough and longThrough life’s uncertain years.And at times in the solemn night-time stillI sink by the hard way alone,With the voiceless silence around me,And my troubled rest a stone.There comes to me a glad thought through the gloom,That rest will the sweeter beWhen the weary burden is cast asideOn the shores of eternity.
Thereare many ways in this feverish lifeWhere the rocks are grim and bare,With no soil for tender plants and flowers,Nor rain nor dew is there;Where the sterile rocks are bleak and bare,And the skies are shrouded and gray,With sweeping winds from a desolate sea,Where there’s never a summer day.And a burning sun in a desert land,And the winter stern and cold,And the wandering feet without a home,And weary and poor and old;And the poor in heart where all love hath died,And the dreary, haunting years,And the friendship dead, and the broken home,And regret and pain and tears.And the hopes that died, and the broken vowsThat severed far and wide,And the toilworn hands, and the sad unrest,And the loss on every side;And the favored ones ’neath sunny skiesThat dream there the hours away,And the struggling poor in barren lands,Where sad day follows day.And the ships that sail over angry seas,And nevermore reach the shore;And the aching hearts, and the weary watchFor the loved that come no more.Ah! I cannot still all these strange, sad thoughts,Nor stay these falling tears;The lonesome way is rough and longThrough life’s uncertain years.And at times in the solemn night-time stillI sink by the hard way alone,With the voiceless silence around me,And my troubled rest a stone.There comes to me a glad thought through the gloom,That rest will the sweeter beWhen the weary burden is cast asideOn the shores of eternity.
Thereare many ways in this feverish lifeWhere the rocks are grim and bare,With no soil for tender plants and flowers,Nor rain nor dew is there;Where the sterile rocks are bleak and bare,And the skies are shrouded and gray,With sweeping winds from a desolate sea,Where there’s never a summer day.
And a burning sun in a desert land,And the winter stern and cold,And the wandering feet without a home,And weary and poor and old;And the poor in heart where all love hath died,And the dreary, haunting years,And the friendship dead, and the broken home,And regret and pain and tears.
And the hopes that died, and the broken vowsThat severed far and wide,And the toilworn hands, and the sad unrest,And the loss on every side;And the favored ones ’neath sunny skiesThat dream there the hours away,And the struggling poor in barren lands,Where sad day follows day.
And the ships that sail over angry seas,And nevermore reach the shore;And the aching hearts, and the weary watchFor the loved that come no more.Ah! I cannot still all these strange, sad thoughts,Nor stay these falling tears;The lonesome way is rough and longThrough life’s uncertain years.
And at times in the solemn night-time stillI sink by the hard way alone,With the voiceless silence around me,And my troubled rest a stone.There comes to me a glad thought through the gloom,That rest will the sweeter beWhen the weary burden is cast asideOn the shores of eternity.
Lifebegan in an old cottage,Near the margin of a stream,Close beside a grand old forest,Where I saw the sunlight gleamO’er the hills lit up with splendorBy the radiance of its light,Searching out the dim recessesOf the borders of the night.Shimm’ring o’er the vales and woodlandsWak’ning all the birds and flowers;Caressing breezes through the leaflets,Murmuring in fairy bowers.Oh, the melody of song-birds,I can hear it, hear it still,Flooding all the fields and woodlands,Rising o’er the rippling rill.And I hear the tinkle, tinkleOf the bells and lowing kine,Echo, echo, down the grasslands,Near the cornland’s waving line.And I hear my father singingQuaint old songs by field and fell;Memory retains them fondly,Still I love on them to dwell.And my school days were so happy;All my tasks seemed light as air,My companions kind and joyous,And the world was bright and fair.How we tripped along the hilltops,Played beside the quiet stream,Frolicked in the leafy woodlands,Where the lights and shadows dream.There we planted in the springtime,Tilled in sultry summer weather;And the days went by so merryAs we sung and wrought together.And we reaped the harvest gaily,Sending many golden wainsFrom the wheatlands and the cornlands,Rich with summer’s welcome gains.And we stored in golden autumn’Gainst the white-robed winter time,Food in plenty for the household,And the fowls and many kine.And we laid away the apples,Hoards of russets, red and gold;Put the cider in the cellar,And defied the winter’s cold.Then when the gold leaves were fallingIn the mellow light and shade,How we fought the frisky squirrelsFor the chestnuts in the glade.We had many nooks and cranniesIn the old house by the stream,Up among the dusty rafters,Where none but gay boys would dream.And when winter’s storm-king coveredAll the hills in white array,And the legions of the northlandWere assembled for the fray—All the fierce and white-robed legions,Sweeping down from Arctic seas,Flinging out their frosted bannersIn defiance to the breeze—And when day was darkly closingIn fierce storm, and sleet, and cold,We secured the fowls in safety,Put the kine within the fold.Then with evening’s gathering darknessThe warm lights were all agleam—The bright, ruddy, dancing firelightsIn the old house by the stream.And we boys went in a-rompingWith no ceremonial fear;All aglow with health and gladnessTo dear mother’s welcome cheer.Then we sought the nooks and crannies,Where the chestnuts could be found;Brought the cider from the cellar,Passed the ripened fruit around.While with many a quaint old storyOf weird legion, love and war,We whiled away the hours so happy,Scarcely ever knew a jar.And we joined with hearts o’erflowingIn glad music and in song;Scarce dreaming of the world beyond us,With its mighty restless throng.When the moon was brightly beaming,Silvering the icebound rill,We skated on the frozen streamlet,Or toboggan’d down the hill.Our light hearts were glad within us,And our blood was pure and warm,As we fought the white-robed legions,And defied the fiercest storm.There was brother Jack and Molly Dean,Sister Nell and Lawrence Dare;And I and blue-eyed Minnie Lee,And scores of youths and maidens fair.How we made the hillside echoWith song, and jest, and laughter gay;Frolicked to our hearts’ contentment,Then homeward wound our merry way.And ’twas thus in peace and plentyThe years went too swiftly by;We had never known a sorrow,Nor had scarcely felt a sigh.Ah, thou generous, good old home,Thy dear circle was complete;We had no absent ones to roam,“No weary wandering feet.”
Lifebegan in an old cottage,Near the margin of a stream,Close beside a grand old forest,Where I saw the sunlight gleamO’er the hills lit up with splendorBy the radiance of its light,Searching out the dim recessesOf the borders of the night.Shimm’ring o’er the vales and woodlandsWak’ning all the birds and flowers;Caressing breezes through the leaflets,Murmuring in fairy bowers.Oh, the melody of song-birds,I can hear it, hear it still,Flooding all the fields and woodlands,Rising o’er the rippling rill.And I hear the tinkle, tinkleOf the bells and lowing kine,Echo, echo, down the grasslands,Near the cornland’s waving line.And I hear my father singingQuaint old songs by field and fell;Memory retains them fondly,Still I love on them to dwell.And my school days were so happy;All my tasks seemed light as air,My companions kind and joyous,And the world was bright and fair.How we tripped along the hilltops,Played beside the quiet stream,Frolicked in the leafy woodlands,Where the lights and shadows dream.There we planted in the springtime,Tilled in sultry summer weather;And the days went by so merryAs we sung and wrought together.And we reaped the harvest gaily,Sending many golden wainsFrom the wheatlands and the cornlands,Rich with summer’s welcome gains.And we stored in golden autumn’Gainst the white-robed winter time,Food in plenty for the household,And the fowls and many kine.And we laid away the apples,Hoards of russets, red and gold;Put the cider in the cellar,And defied the winter’s cold.Then when the gold leaves were fallingIn the mellow light and shade,How we fought the frisky squirrelsFor the chestnuts in the glade.We had many nooks and cranniesIn the old house by the stream,Up among the dusty rafters,Where none but gay boys would dream.And when winter’s storm-king coveredAll the hills in white array,And the legions of the northlandWere assembled for the fray—All the fierce and white-robed legions,Sweeping down from Arctic seas,Flinging out their frosted bannersIn defiance to the breeze—And when day was darkly closingIn fierce storm, and sleet, and cold,We secured the fowls in safety,Put the kine within the fold.Then with evening’s gathering darknessThe warm lights were all agleam—The bright, ruddy, dancing firelightsIn the old house by the stream.And we boys went in a-rompingWith no ceremonial fear;All aglow with health and gladnessTo dear mother’s welcome cheer.Then we sought the nooks and crannies,Where the chestnuts could be found;Brought the cider from the cellar,Passed the ripened fruit around.While with many a quaint old storyOf weird legion, love and war,We whiled away the hours so happy,Scarcely ever knew a jar.And we joined with hearts o’erflowingIn glad music and in song;Scarce dreaming of the world beyond us,With its mighty restless throng.When the moon was brightly beaming,Silvering the icebound rill,We skated on the frozen streamlet,Or toboggan’d down the hill.Our light hearts were glad within us,And our blood was pure and warm,As we fought the white-robed legions,And defied the fiercest storm.There was brother Jack and Molly Dean,Sister Nell and Lawrence Dare;And I and blue-eyed Minnie Lee,And scores of youths and maidens fair.How we made the hillside echoWith song, and jest, and laughter gay;Frolicked to our hearts’ contentment,Then homeward wound our merry way.And ’twas thus in peace and plentyThe years went too swiftly by;We had never known a sorrow,Nor had scarcely felt a sigh.Ah, thou generous, good old home,Thy dear circle was complete;We had no absent ones to roam,“No weary wandering feet.”
Lifebegan in an old cottage,Near the margin of a stream,Close beside a grand old forest,Where I saw the sunlight gleamO’er the hills lit up with splendorBy the radiance of its light,Searching out the dim recessesOf the borders of the night.
Shimm’ring o’er the vales and woodlandsWak’ning all the birds and flowers;Caressing breezes through the leaflets,Murmuring in fairy bowers.Oh, the melody of song-birds,I can hear it, hear it still,Flooding all the fields and woodlands,Rising o’er the rippling rill.
And I hear the tinkle, tinkleOf the bells and lowing kine,Echo, echo, down the grasslands,Near the cornland’s waving line.And I hear my father singingQuaint old songs by field and fell;Memory retains them fondly,Still I love on them to dwell.
And my school days were so happy;All my tasks seemed light as air,My companions kind and joyous,And the world was bright and fair.How we tripped along the hilltops,Played beside the quiet stream,Frolicked in the leafy woodlands,Where the lights and shadows dream.
There we planted in the springtime,Tilled in sultry summer weather;And the days went by so merryAs we sung and wrought together.And we reaped the harvest gaily,Sending many golden wainsFrom the wheatlands and the cornlands,Rich with summer’s welcome gains.
And we stored in golden autumn’Gainst the white-robed winter time,Food in plenty for the household,And the fowls and many kine.And we laid away the apples,Hoards of russets, red and gold;Put the cider in the cellar,And defied the winter’s cold.
Then when the gold leaves were fallingIn the mellow light and shade,How we fought the frisky squirrelsFor the chestnuts in the glade.We had many nooks and cranniesIn the old house by the stream,Up among the dusty rafters,Where none but gay boys would dream.
And when winter’s storm-king coveredAll the hills in white array,And the legions of the northlandWere assembled for the fray—All the fierce and white-robed legions,Sweeping down from Arctic seas,Flinging out their frosted bannersIn defiance to the breeze—
And when day was darkly closingIn fierce storm, and sleet, and cold,We secured the fowls in safety,Put the kine within the fold.Then with evening’s gathering darknessThe warm lights were all agleam—The bright, ruddy, dancing firelightsIn the old house by the stream.
And we boys went in a-rompingWith no ceremonial fear;All aglow with health and gladnessTo dear mother’s welcome cheer.Then we sought the nooks and crannies,Where the chestnuts could be found;Brought the cider from the cellar,Passed the ripened fruit around.
While with many a quaint old storyOf weird legion, love and war,We whiled away the hours so happy,Scarcely ever knew a jar.And we joined with hearts o’erflowingIn glad music and in song;Scarce dreaming of the world beyond us,With its mighty restless throng.
When the moon was brightly beaming,Silvering the icebound rill,We skated on the frozen streamlet,Or toboggan’d down the hill.Our light hearts were glad within us,And our blood was pure and warm,As we fought the white-robed legions,And defied the fiercest storm.
There was brother Jack and Molly Dean,Sister Nell and Lawrence Dare;And I and blue-eyed Minnie Lee,And scores of youths and maidens fair.How we made the hillside echoWith song, and jest, and laughter gay;Frolicked to our hearts’ contentment,Then homeward wound our merry way.
And ’twas thus in peace and plentyThe years went too swiftly by;We had never known a sorrow,Nor had scarcely felt a sigh.Ah, thou generous, good old home,Thy dear circle was complete;We had no absent ones to roam,“No weary wandering feet.”
’Tis well that childhood and youth should be bright,All sunny with bloom, and the golden lightOf innocent days of love and fair hope,Gathering strength with life’s battles to cope.Awake or asleep, a vision, a dream;The real and unreal are floating betweenMysterious shores, as the stream glides away;The mystery of life, and the grace of a day.Ah, who can measure the fleetness of years?The height of our joys, the depth of our tears?The horizon bounds our dim vision here,And our thoughts are vague as the boundless sphereBordering round us; vast ethereal seaOn the awful confines of eternity!Anxiously we peer into the abysmal gloom,Striving to read there futurity’s doom;And we walk with hope in its radiant light,Or grope lone and lost through the realms of night.’Tis either a season of bliss or pain,Of grievous loss, or of welcome gain;The peace of love, soothing every care,Or a barren waste and a grim despair.A few there are that glide calmly between,Leading sunny lives, knowing no extremeOf love or of hate, of sorrow or pain.Caring not for the world, its wealth nor its fame,Serenely they glide like a summer dayDown the stream of time, flitting swift away.What are thy works, thy wisdom, O man?A little point in God’s marvellous planOf creation; a weak dependent, thou,On help Divine; doubt written on thy brow.E’en the orb we inhabit, we dimly traceIts spectral course through the realms of space,As careening we sweep through voids unknown,Round an infinite centre, Alcyone!Aye, life’s a mystery, a fleeting breath,Pursued by phantoms, o’ertaken by death.’Tis merely a step from day into night,From darkness into the marvellous lightOf a day of golden, supernal bloomBeyond the confines of death and the tomb.Our childhood’s a joyous and peaceful dream,With no set purpose to darken between;To sing, and to shout, to frolic awayThe bright, happy hours of the rosy day.But youth will awaken, and hear afarThe muffled roar of the world’s stern war.Ambition will rise in their hearts of fire,To fame and honors they too will aspire.And thus it hath been, and ever ’twill be,Till time dies out in eternity.
’Tis well that childhood and youth should be bright,All sunny with bloom, and the golden lightOf innocent days of love and fair hope,Gathering strength with life’s battles to cope.Awake or asleep, a vision, a dream;The real and unreal are floating betweenMysterious shores, as the stream glides away;The mystery of life, and the grace of a day.Ah, who can measure the fleetness of years?The height of our joys, the depth of our tears?The horizon bounds our dim vision here,And our thoughts are vague as the boundless sphereBordering round us; vast ethereal seaOn the awful confines of eternity!Anxiously we peer into the abysmal gloom,Striving to read there futurity’s doom;And we walk with hope in its radiant light,Or grope lone and lost through the realms of night.’Tis either a season of bliss or pain,Of grievous loss, or of welcome gain;The peace of love, soothing every care,Or a barren waste and a grim despair.A few there are that glide calmly between,Leading sunny lives, knowing no extremeOf love or of hate, of sorrow or pain.Caring not for the world, its wealth nor its fame,Serenely they glide like a summer dayDown the stream of time, flitting swift away.What are thy works, thy wisdom, O man?A little point in God’s marvellous planOf creation; a weak dependent, thou,On help Divine; doubt written on thy brow.E’en the orb we inhabit, we dimly traceIts spectral course through the realms of space,As careening we sweep through voids unknown,Round an infinite centre, Alcyone!Aye, life’s a mystery, a fleeting breath,Pursued by phantoms, o’ertaken by death.’Tis merely a step from day into night,From darkness into the marvellous lightOf a day of golden, supernal bloomBeyond the confines of death and the tomb.Our childhood’s a joyous and peaceful dream,With no set purpose to darken between;To sing, and to shout, to frolic awayThe bright, happy hours of the rosy day.But youth will awaken, and hear afarThe muffled roar of the world’s stern war.Ambition will rise in their hearts of fire,To fame and honors they too will aspire.And thus it hath been, and ever ’twill be,Till time dies out in eternity.
’Tis well that childhood and youth should be bright,All sunny with bloom, and the golden lightOf innocent days of love and fair hope,Gathering strength with life’s battles to cope.Awake or asleep, a vision, a dream;The real and unreal are floating betweenMysterious shores, as the stream glides away;The mystery of life, and the grace of a day.Ah, who can measure the fleetness of years?The height of our joys, the depth of our tears?The horizon bounds our dim vision here,And our thoughts are vague as the boundless sphereBordering round us; vast ethereal seaOn the awful confines of eternity!
Anxiously we peer into the abysmal gloom,Striving to read there futurity’s doom;And we walk with hope in its radiant light,Or grope lone and lost through the realms of night.’Tis either a season of bliss or pain,Of grievous loss, or of welcome gain;The peace of love, soothing every care,Or a barren waste and a grim despair.A few there are that glide calmly between,Leading sunny lives, knowing no extremeOf love or of hate, of sorrow or pain.Caring not for the world, its wealth nor its fame,Serenely they glide like a summer dayDown the stream of time, flitting swift away.What are thy works, thy wisdom, O man?A little point in God’s marvellous planOf creation; a weak dependent, thou,On help Divine; doubt written on thy brow.E’en the orb we inhabit, we dimly traceIts spectral course through the realms of space,As careening we sweep through voids unknown,Round an infinite centre, Alcyone!
Aye, life’s a mystery, a fleeting breath,Pursued by phantoms, o’ertaken by death.’Tis merely a step from day into night,From darkness into the marvellous lightOf a day of golden, supernal bloomBeyond the confines of death and the tomb.Our childhood’s a joyous and peaceful dream,With no set purpose to darken between;To sing, and to shout, to frolic awayThe bright, happy hours of the rosy day.But youth will awaken, and hear afarThe muffled roar of the world’s stern war.Ambition will rise in their hearts of fire,To fame and honors they too will aspire.And thus it hath been, and ever ’twill be,Till time dies out in eternity.
Weboys had hopefully crossed the Rubicon,And entered the arena, the battle of life;An ensanguined field, where millions of menEngage in the ruthless, pitiless strife.Glowing pictures of the world beyond had reached us,Alluring our tender, untried feet to roam;And we grew ambitious and unsatisfied,And wandered away from the dear old home.Out on the highway, the strange highway of life,We joined in the conflict, with hope beating high,Heeding not the mutterings of the storm afar,As it darkened along the edge of the sky.We saw not the foes that lurked by the wayside,We knew not the road was so dreary and long;We only were eager to join in the conflictFor wealth and fair fame with the ravenous throng.But our paths diverged, and my brother and IParted, to meet in this life nevermore;And a lonesomeness and heartache came unto me,A poor wanderer; and weird shadows stealing o’erThe way that I must go with pain and vague regret;And haunting dreams of the loved ones and of homeWere ever with me in the conflict’s surging tide,Where I strove for victory unsupported and alone.And brother Jack went on the sea,And sailed its blue depths far and wide,In quest of wealth and tempting fameTo crown his patient waiting bride.Many a day hath passed awaySince Molly Dean watched on the shore,With fading face and weary eye,For brother Jack will come no more.Far, far away on southern seasThe wild typhoon in fury fell;Of Jack’s good ship and gallant crewNot one was spared the tale to tell.They say ’twas at the eventime,When sunset’s glory crowns the lea,They found poor stricken Molly DeanIn her last sleep beside the sea.And when the summer time had fadedAnd bird songs no longer were gay,Minnie Lee drooped low like the liliesAnd peacefully passed away.They laid her to rest where the rosesAnd lilies in summer may bloom;And the winds softly sigh to the daisiesThat modestly mantle her tomb.By the shores of a western seaDwelt sister Nell and Lawrence Dare;For them the skies were ever clear,And all the world was kindly fair.But in the old house by the stream,The old folks mourned from day to day;In loss and loneliness they pined,And faded swift from earth away.And they are resting side by side,Near Minnie Lee and Molly Dean,In the still city of repose,Near to the margin of the stream.Sleep on! sleep on! oh, loved and lost,The lonesome winds around thee sigh;Sleep through the years we trust will bringA never-ending “by and by.”
Weboys had hopefully crossed the Rubicon,And entered the arena, the battle of life;An ensanguined field, where millions of menEngage in the ruthless, pitiless strife.Glowing pictures of the world beyond had reached us,Alluring our tender, untried feet to roam;And we grew ambitious and unsatisfied,And wandered away from the dear old home.Out on the highway, the strange highway of life,We joined in the conflict, with hope beating high,Heeding not the mutterings of the storm afar,As it darkened along the edge of the sky.We saw not the foes that lurked by the wayside,We knew not the road was so dreary and long;We only were eager to join in the conflictFor wealth and fair fame with the ravenous throng.But our paths diverged, and my brother and IParted, to meet in this life nevermore;And a lonesomeness and heartache came unto me,A poor wanderer; and weird shadows stealing o’erThe way that I must go with pain and vague regret;And haunting dreams of the loved ones and of homeWere ever with me in the conflict’s surging tide,Where I strove for victory unsupported and alone.And brother Jack went on the sea,And sailed its blue depths far and wide,In quest of wealth and tempting fameTo crown his patient waiting bride.Many a day hath passed awaySince Molly Dean watched on the shore,With fading face and weary eye,For brother Jack will come no more.Far, far away on southern seasThe wild typhoon in fury fell;Of Jack’s good ship and gallant crewNot one was spared the tale to tell.They say ’twas at the eventime,When sunset’s glory crowns the lea,They found poor stricken Molly DeanIn her last sleep beside the sea.And when the summer time had fadedAnd bird songs no longer were gay,Minnie Lee drooped low like the liliesAnd peacefully passed away.They laid her to rest where the rosesAnd lilies in summer may bloom;And the winds softly sigh to the daisiesThat modestly mantle her tomb.By the shores of a western seaDwelt sister Nell and Lawrence Dare;For them the skies were ever clear,And all the world was kindly fair.But in the old house by the stream,The old folks mourned from day to day;In loss and loneliness they pined,And faded swift from earth away.And they are resting side by side,Near Minnie Lee and Molly Dean,In the still city of repose,Near to the margin of the stream.Sleep on! sleep on! oh, loved and lost,The lonesome winds around thee sigh;Sleep through the years we trust will bringA never-ending “by and by.”
Weboys had hopefully crossed the Rubicon,And entered the arena, the battle of life;An ensanguined field, where millions of menEngage in the ruthless, pitiless strife.Glowing pictures of the world beyond had reached us,Alluring our tender, untried feet to roam;And we grew ambitious and unsatisfied,And wandered away from the dear old home.
Out on the highway, the strange highway of life,We joined in the conflict, with hope beating high,Heeding not the mutterings of the storm afar,As it darkened along the edge of the sky.We saw not the foes that lurked by the wayside,We knew not the road was so dreary and long;We only were eager to join in the conflictFor wealth and fair fame with the ravenous throng.
But our paths diverged, and my brother and IParted, to meet in this life nevermore;And a lonesomeness and heartache came unto me,A poor wanderer; and weird shadows stealing o’erThe way that I must go with pain and vague regret;And haunting dreams of the loved ones and of homeWere ever with me in the conflict’s surging tide,Where I strove for victory unsupported and alone.
And brother Jack went on the sea,And sailed its blue depths far and wide,In quest of wealth and tempting fameTo crown his patient waiting bride.Many a day hath passed awaySince Molly Dean watched on the shore,With fading face and weary eye,For brother Jack will come no more.
Far, far away on southern seasThe wild typhoon in fury fell;Of Jack’s good ship and gallant crewNot one was spared the tale to tell.They say ’twas at the eventime,When sunset’s glory crowns the lea,They found poor stricken Molly DeanIn her last sleep beside the sea.
And when the summer time had fadedAnd bird songs no longer were gay,Minnie Lee drooped low like the liliesAnd peacefully passed away.They laid her to rest where the rosesAnd lilies in summer may bloom;And the winds softly sigh to the daisiesThat modestly mantle her tomb.
By the shores of a western seaDwelt sister Nell and Lawrence Dare;For them the skies were ever clear,And all the world was kindly fair.But in the old house by the stream,The old folks mourned from day to day;In loss and loneliness they pined,And faded swift from earth away.
And they are resting side by side,Near Minnie Lee and Molly Dean,In the still city of repose,Near to the margin of the stream.Sleep on! sleep on! oh, loved and lost,The lonesome winds around thee sigh;Sleep through the years we trust will bringA never-ending “by and by.”
I’dsought the busy marts of men,The city’s fev’rish, ceaseless din,Where strife and vile rapaciousnessAre steeped in crime and vaunted sin.The rage of commerce and the clashOf steel and iron works that fillThe air with vibrant, rasping sound,And human voices harsh and shrill.Machinery’s fierce and grinding roar,The shouts of lab’rer and artizan,As stroke on stroke with might and mainThey strive to lead the rushing van.Remorseless as the hand of fateStands capital with sword in hand,To grind the toiling millions downTo servile state through all the land.A thousand vehicles that plyAlong the hot and dusty ways;The rushing of a million feet;A universal hungry crazeFor wealth, and pomp, and pride, and powerAll heedless of the anguished cryOf weaker fellows trampled down,Unheeded, helpless, and to die.In the arena packed and pent,The speculative gambler’s bower,Where stocks are fiercely bought and sold,And men are ruined in an hour:Hark! the frenzied, madden’d shout,Exultant or despairing cry;Triumphant ones go proudly forth,Or, ruined, creep away to die.A few there are that win the wayThrough battle’s fierce and fiery flame;Their dauntless and intrepid soulsWin up the dazzling heights of fame.A few that dwell in palaces,Afar removed from toil and strife,There idly dream the years awayThat bound their vain, luxurious life.A few there are of noble heartThat heed the orphan’s pleading cry,The widow’s want and helplessness,And to the rescue gladly fly.They come like sunshine from above,To light and cheer man’s lonely way;Their mission is of charity,To help his darkest doubtful day.’Tis theirs to soothe the broken heart,To see the wicked wrong redrest,To lift the fallen up again,And give the homeless wanderers rest.’Tis theirs to bear the dead away,To hear the last sad plaint and sigh,To teach the mourner patience still,And tell the suffering how to die.’Tis theirs to point the narrow wayThat leadeth where there are no tears,No night, no sin, nor selfishness,Beyond life’s disappointing years.God sees and hears these noble soulsThat fight through every ill and pain;Giving their all, it shall be said,Their lives were not, were not in vain.I mingled in the stern affray—Ah! how I strove to win the prizeOf wealth, position, and a name,By bold, successful enterprise.Oh, days of anxious thought and toil!Oh, nights of fev’rish restlessness!Either elated or deprestBy hope’s uncertain, wearing stress.And though I gained some stubborn days,And won the smile success attains,A cringing world I found would laudThe potent power that wealth maintains.Aye, though I crowned the stubborn heights,I could not hold the fateful field,The combinations were too great;When all was lost I could but yield.I fled far out along the wayBeyond the city’s ceaseless din;I sought for nature’s quietude,Beyond its cruel haunts of sin.The arena knew my face no more;I longed for quiet and for rest;A tender peace stole o’er my heartAs light was fading in the west.
I’dsought the busy marts of men,The city’s fev’rish, ceaseless din,Where strife and vile rapaciousnessAre steeped in crime and vaunted sin.The rage of commerce and the clashOf steel and iron works that fillThe air with vibrant, rasping sound,And human voices harsh and shrill.Machinery’s fierce and grinding roar,The shouts of lab’rer and artizan,As stroke on stroke with might and mainThey strive to lead the rushing van.Remorseless as the hand of fateStands capital with sword in hand,To grind the toiling millions downTo servile state through all the land.A thousand vehicles that plyAlong the hot and dusty ways;The rushing of a million feet;A universal hungry crazeFor wealth, and pomp, and pride, and powerAll heedless of the anguished cryOf weaker fellows trampled down,Unheeded, helpless, and to die.In the arena packed and pent,The speculative gambler’s bower,Where stocks are fiercely bought and sold,And men are ruined in an hour:Hark! the frenzied, madden’d shout,Exultant or despairing cry;Triumphant ones go proudly forth,Or, ruined, creep away to die.A few there are that win the wayThrough battle’s fierce and fiery flame;Their dauntless and intrepid soulsWin up the dazzling heights of fame.A few that dwell in palaces,Afar removed from toil and strife,There idly dream the years awayThat bound their vain, luxurious life.A few there are of noble heartThat heed the orphan’s pleading cry,The widow’s want and helplessness,And to the rescue gladly fly.They come like sunshine from above,To light and cheer man’s lonely way;Their mission is of charity,To help his darkest doubtful day.’Tis theirs to soothe the broken heart,To see the wicked wrong redrest,To lift the fallen up again,And give the homeless wanderers rest.’Tis theirs to bear the dead away,To hear the last sad plaint and sigh,To teach the mourner patience still,And tell the suffering how to die.’Tis theirs to point the narrow wayThat leadeth where there are no tears,No night, no sin, nor selfishness,Beyond life’s disappointing years.God sees and hears these noble soulsThat fight through every ill and pain;Giving their all, it shall be said,Their lives were not, were not in vain.I mingled in the stern affray—Ah! how I strove to win the prizeOf wealth, position, and a name,By bold, successful enterprise.Oh, days of anxious thought and toil!Oh, nights of fev’rish restlessness!Either elated or deprestBy hope’s uncertain, wearing stress.And though I gained some stubborn days,And won the smile success attains,A cringing world I found would laudThe potent power that wealth maintains.Aye, though I crowned the stubborn heights,I could not hold the fateful field,The combinations were too great;When all was lost I could but yield.I fled far out along the wayBeyond the city’s ceaseless din;I sought for nature’s quietude,Beyond its cruel haunts of sin.The arena knew my face no more;I longed for quiet and for rest;A tender peace stole o’er my heartAs light was fading in the west.
I’dsought the busy marts of men,The city’s fev’rish, ceaseless din,Where strife and vile rapaciousnessAre steeped in crime and vaunted sin.The rage of commerce and the clashOf steel and iron works that fillThe air with vibrant, rasping sound,And human voices harsh and shrill.
Machinery’s fierce and grinding roar,The shouts of lab’rer and artizan,As stroke on stroke with might and mainThey strive to lead the rushing van.Remorseless as the hand of fateStands capital with sword in hand,To grind the toiling millions downTo servile state through all the land.
A thousand vehicles that plyAlong the hot and dusty ways;The rushing of a million feet;A universal hungry crazeFor wealth, and pomp, and pride, and powerAll heedless of the anguished cryOf weaker fellows trampled down,Unheeded, helpless, and to die.
In the arena packed and pent,The speculative gambler’s bower,Where stocks are fiercely bought and sold,And men are ruined in an hour:Hark! the frenzied, madden’d shout,Exultant or despairing cry;Triumphant ones go proudly forth,Or, ruined, creep away to die.
A few there are that win the wayThrough battle’s fierce and fiery flame;Their dauntless and intrepid soulsWin up the dazzling heights of fame.A few that dwell in palaces,Afar removed from toil and strife,There idly dream the years awayThat bound their vain, luxurious life.
A few there are of noble heartThat heed the orphan’s pleading cry,The widow’s want and helplessness,And to the rescue gladly fly.They come like sunshine from above,To light and cheer man’s lonely way;Their mission is of charity,To help his darkest doubtful day.
’Tis theirs to soothe the broken heart,To see the wicked wrong redrest,To lift the fallen up again,And give the homeless wanderers rest.’Tis theirs to bear the dead away,To hear the last sad plaint and sigh,To teach the mourner patience still,And tell the suffering how to die.
’Tis theirs to point the narrow wayThat leadeth where there are no tears,No night, no sin, nor selfishness,Beyond life’s disappointing years.God sees and hears these noble soulsThat fight through every ill and pain;Giving their all, it shall be said,Their lives were not, were not in vain.
I mingled in the stern affray—Ah! how I strove to win the prizeOf wealth, position, and a name,By bold, successful enterprise.Oh, days of anxious thought and toil!Oh, nights of fev’rish restlessness!Either elated or deprestBy hope’s uncertain, wearing stress.
And though I gained some stubborn days,And won the smile success attains,A cringing world I found would laudThe potent power that wealth maintains.Aye, though I crowned the stubborn heights,I could not hold the fateful field,The combinations were too great;When all was lost I could but yield.
I fled far out along the wayBeyond the city’s ceaseless din;I sought for nature’s quietude,Beyond its cruel haunts of sin.The arena knew my face no more;I longed for quiet and for rest;A tender peace stole o’er my heartAs light was fading in the west.
AndI was saddened and subdued;No friendly smile would on me beam;I longed then for the olden days,And the old home beside the stream.But destiny had made decreeThat I should nevermore return,But on and onward go alone—Ah! how these tears my eyes do burn.Ambition stirred my soul no more,And I had very weary grown;A nameless sorrow filled my breast,Life’s every hope was overthrown.I stood alone on life’s highway,With empty hands that wrought so long,Alone, unheeded and forgot,As some lost dream or phantom song.The summer sun was burning still,Though autumn days were drawing nigh;The song-birds sung in fading bowers,And sad-voiced winds went sobbing by.But nature’s song is dear to me,It searches out my every care;Its subtle voice brings peacefulness,As soothing as an angel’s prayer.And thus I move along the wayThat leads me toward the setting sun;I see the lengthening shadows grow,And leaves turn crimson one by one.The harvest days are over now,The meadow-lands are safely mown,And calmness broods where plenteousnessEnriches many a happy home.But from the fields all reaped and brownThere comes a weird and haunting strainWhere late was heard the reaper’s song,Strange phantom voices plead in vain.They seem to plead for some lost cause;An invisible, unknown powerSpeaks through the shorn, deserted fields,And faded leaf and blighted flower.And in the calm autumnal daysA solemn gladness comes to me,And though I go with empty handsResignation hath set me free.The mournful winds sob sadly now,The lengthening shadows grow apace,The skies in sombre hues are dressed,And dead leaves flutter in my face.And still I press along the way—’Tis growing rough for tired feet—I hear the muttering of the storm,And watch the vivid lightning’s leap.Its blinding flashes rend the skies;The rain a torrent on me pours;The mighty oak is rent in twain,And the dread tempest round me roars.And thus I march along the road,Though blinded oft by sleet and rain;I shiver in the chilling winds,And moan with weariness and pain.And when the shadows gloom the way,The darkness of the lonesome nightBrings out the stars in cold array,And frost gleams in the ghastly light.Then I upraise a pleading prayer,And sink exhausted to the ground;With but a crust my ev’ning meal,I fall into a rest profound.And dreams of old come unto me,I climb again youth’s shining hills,And view the woodlands and the fields,And song of birds my glad heart thrills.I hear again my father’s voice,And brother Jack is by my side,And sister Nell and Lawrence Dare,And Minnie Lee, the village pride;And all the friends that blest my youthOn me their loving glances beam,And life once more is blithe and gayIn the old cottage by the stream.My mother’s hand is on my brow;To me a perfect rest is given;I hear the songs of heavenly choirs,I dream, my soul, I dream of heaven.I hear what mortals may not tell,A sacred greeting meets me there,And ecstasy my being thrills,Heaven opes to me so wondrous fair.The dawn’s cold light falls on my face,I wake benumbed by frost and dew,I pray for strength to bear me up—Again my journey I pursue.My thoughts flow backward as I go,And yearning still for other days,The shadows colder, denser grow,The skies now wear a shroud of haze.
AndI was saddened and subdued;No friendly smile would on me beam;I longed then for the olden days,And the old home beside the stream.But destiny had made decreeThat I should nevermore return,But on and onward go alone—Ah! how these tears my eyes do burn.Ambition stirred my soul no more,And I had very weary grown;A nameless sorrow filled my breast,Life’s every hope was overthrown.I stood alone on life’s highway,With empty hands that wrought so long,Alone, unheeded and forgot,As some lost dream or phantom song.The summer sun was burning still,Though autumn days were drawing nigh;The song-birds sung in fading bowers,And sad-voiced winds went sobbing by.But nature’s song is dear to me,It searches out my every care;Its subtle voice brings peacefulness,As soothing as an angel’s prayer.And thus I move along the wayThat leads me toward the setting sun;I see the lengthening shadows grow,And leaves turn crimson one by one.The harvest days are over now,The meadow-lands are safely mown,And calmness broods where plenteousnessEnriches many a happy home.But from the fields all reaped and brownThere comes a weird and haunting strainWhere late was heard the reaper’s song,Strange phantom voices plead in vain.They seem to plead for some lost cause;An invisible, unknown powerSpeaks through the shorn, deserted fields,And faded leaf and blighted flower.And in the calm autumnal daysA solemn gladness comes to me,And though I go with empty handsResignation hath set me free.The mournful winds sob sadly now,The lengthening shadows grow apace,The skies in sombre hues are dressed,And dead leaves flutter in my face.And still I press along the way—’Tis growing rough for tired feet—I hear the muttering of the storm,And watch the vivid lightning’s leap.Its blinding flashes rend the skies;The rain a torrent on me pours;The mighty oak is rent in twain,And the dread tempest round me roars.And thus I march along the road,Though blinded oft by sleet and rain;I shiver in the chilling winds,And moan with weariness and pain.And when the shadows gloom the way,The darkness of the lonesome nightBrings out the stars in cold array,And frost gleams in the ghastly light.Then I upraise a pleading prayer,And sink exhausted to the ground;With but a crust my ev’ning meal,I fall into a rest profound.And dreams of old come unto me,I climb again youth’s shining hills,And view the woodlands and the fields,And song of birds my glad heart thrills.I hear again my father’s voice,And brother Jack is by my side,And sister Nell and Lawrence Dare,And Minnie Lee, the village pride;And all the friends that blest my youthOn me their loving glances beam,And life once more is blithe and gayIn the old cottage by the stream.My mother’s hand is on my brow;To me a perfect rest is given;I hear the songs of heavenly choirs,I dream, my soul, I dream of heaven.I hear what mortals may not tell,A sacred greeting meets me there,And ecstasy my being thrills,Heaven opes to me so wondrous fair.The dawn’s cold light falls on my face,I wake benumbed by frost and dew,I pray for strength to bear me up—Again my journey I pursue.My thoughts flow backward as I go,And yearning still for other days,The shadows colder, denser grow,The skies now wear a shroud of haze.
AndI was saddened and subdued;No friendly smile would on me beam;I longed then for the olden days,And the old home beside the stream.But destiny had made decreeThat I should nevermore return,But on and onward go alone—Ah! how these tears my eyes do burn.
Ambition stirred my soul no more,And I had very weary grown;A nameless sorrow filled my breast,Life’s every hope was overthrown.I stood alone on life’s highway,With empty hands that wrought so long,Alone, unheeded and forgot,As some lost dream or phantom song.
The summer sun was burning still,Though autumn days were drawing nigh;The song-birds sung in fading bowers,And sad-voiced winds went sobbing by.But nature’s song is dear to me,It searches out my every care;Its subtle voice brings peacefulness,As soothing as an angel’s prayer.
And thus I move along the wayThat leads me toward the setting sun;I see the lengthening shadows grow,And leaves turn crimson one by one.The harvest days are over now,The meadow-lands are safely mown,And calmness broods where plenteousnessEnriches many a happy home.
But from the fields all reaped and brownThere comes a weird and haunting strainWhere late was heard the reaper’s song,Strange phantom voices plead in vain.They seem to plead for some lost cause;An invisible, unknown powerSpeaks through the shorn, deserted fields,And faded leaf and blighted flower.
And in the calm autumnal daysA solemn gladness comes to me,And though I go with empty handsResignation hath set me free.The mournful winds sob sadly now,The lengthening shadows grow apace,The skies in sombre hues are dressed,And dead leaves flutter in my face.
And still I press along the way—’Tis growing rough for tired feet—I hear the muttering of the storm,And watch the vivid lightning’s leap.Its blinding flashes rend the skies;The rain a torrent on me pours;The mighty oak is rent in twain,And the dread tempest round me roars.
And thus I march along the road,Though blinded oft by sleet and rain;I shiver in the chilling winds,And moan with weariness and pain.And when the shadows gloom the way,The darkness of the lonesome nightBrings out the stars in cold array,And frost gleams in the ghastly light.
Then I upraise a pleading prayer,And sink exhausted to the ground;With but a crust my ev’ning meal,I fall into a rest profound.And dreams of old come unto me,I climb again youth’s shining hills,And view the woodlands and the fields,And song of birds my glad heart thrills.
I hear again my father’s voice,And brother Jack is by my side,And sister Nell and Lawrence Dare,And Minnie Lee, the village pride;And all the friends that blest my youthOn me their loving glances beam,And life once more is blithe and gayIn the old cottage by the stream.
My mother’s hand is on my brow;To me a perfect rest is given;I hear the songs of heavenly choirs,I dream, my soul, I dream of heaven.I hear what mortals may not tell,A sacred greeting meets me there,And ecstasy my being thrills,Heaven opes to me so wondrous fair.
The dawn’s cold light falls on my face,I wake benumbed by frost and dew,I pray for strength to bear me up—Again my journey I pursue.My thoughts flow backward as I go,And yearning still for other days,The shadows colder, denser grow,The skies now wear a shroud of haze.
Goldenlight of life’s glad morning,Oh, so long, so long ago,I am looking, looking backwardFrom the hills all white with snow.And it is so bleak and dreary,Oh, this long and toilsome way!And my feet are worn and wearyMarching onward day by day.And the road is growing rougher,Desolate on every side,The mountains tower higher, higher,And the storm sweeps far and wide;And the skies are ever shroudedBy the clouds, all stern and gray,And the light grows dim and dimmerAs night-time closes down the day.And I scarce can trace the pathwayThat I tread with pain and moan,And I have no place of refuge,And my rest is but a stone;But I’m marching, ever marchingToward the far-off sunset shore,And I sometimes catch the flashingOf its rays that glimmer o’erThe rugged, bleak, and lofty mountainsThat seem e’er to bar my wayToward the “city of the sunset”That I’m nearing day by day.Up and down the grim, dark mountains,Where the torrents leap and roar,I am struggling onward, onward,Oft with heart so faint and sore.Through the vales of desolationWhere no living thing is seen,Over crags and yawning chasms,Where dread dangers lurk between.But I press on through all perils,While the days pass one by one;Soon I’ll reach the “City Golden,”Beyond the setting of the sun.The light that glows above the mountains,Grows brighter, nearer every hour;It sustains and cheers me onward,Renews my courage by its power.And I’m trusting for a meetingWhere the lights immortal beam,With the friends that blest my childhoodIn the old cottage by the stream.
Goldenlight of life’s glad morning,Oh, so long, so long ago,I am looking, looking backwardFrom the hills all white with snow.And it is so bleak and dreary,Oh, this long and toilsome way!And my feet are worn and wearyMarching onward day by day.And the road is growing rougher,Desolate on every side,The mountains tower higher, higher,And the storm sweeps far and wide;And the skies are ever shroudedBy the clouds, all stern and gray,And the light grows dim and dimmerAs night-time closes down the day.And I scarce can trace the pathwayThat I tread with pain and moan,And I have no place of refuge,And my rest is but a stone;But I’m marching, ever marchingToward the far-off sunset shore,And I sometimes catch the flashingOf its rays that glimmer o’erThe rugged, bleak, and lofty mountainsThat seem e’er to bar my wayToward the “city of the sunset”That I’m nearing day by day.Up and down the grim, dark mountains,Where the torrents leap and roar,I am struggling onward, onward,Oft with heart so faint and sore.Through the vales of desolationWhere no living thing is seen,Over crags and yawning chasms,Where dread dangers lurk between.But I press on through all perils,While the days pass one by one;Soon I’ll reach the “City Golden,”Beyond the setting of the sun.The light that glows above the mountains,Grows brighter, nearer every hour;It sustains and cheers me onward,Renews my courage by its power.And I’m trusting for a meetingWhere the lights immortal beam,With the friends that blest my childhoodIn the old cottage by the stream.
Goldenlight of life’s glad morning,Oh, so long, so long ago,I am looking, looking backwardFrom the hills all white with snow.And it is so bleak and dreary,Oh, this long and toilsome way!And my feet are worn and wearyMarching onward day by day.
And the road is growing rougher,Desolate on every side,The mountains tower higher, higher,And the storm sweeps far and wide;And the skies are ever shroudedBy the clouds, all stern and gray,And the light grows dim and dimmerAs night-time closes down the day.
And I scarce can trace the pathwayThat I tread with pain and moan,And I have no place of refuge,And my rest is but a stone;But I’m marching, ever marchingToward the far-off sunset shore,And I sometimes catch the flashingOf its rays that glimmer o’er
The rugged, bleak, and lofty mountainsThat seem e’er to bar my wayToward the “city of the sunset”That I’m nearing day by day.Up and down the grim, dark mountains,Where the torrents leap and roar,I am struggling onward, onward,Oft with heart so faint and sore.
Through the vales of desolationWhere no living thing is seen,Over crags and yawning chasms,Where dread dangers lurk between.But I press on through all perils,While the days pass one by one;Soon I’ll reach the “City Golden,”Beyond the setting of the sun.
The light that glows above the mountains,Grows brighter, nearer every hour;It sustains and cheers me onward,Renews my courage by its power.And I’m trusting for a meetingWhere the lights immortal beam,With the friends that blest my childhoodIn the old cottage by the stream.
Wolfehad gained the Plains of AbrahamEre the slumbering sun uprose,Formed his lines, and calmly waitedThe onslaught of England’s foes.The September sun all goldenRose upon the glorious scene,Lighting up the hills far distant,And the mighty murmuring stream;Touching with peaceful, glowing fingersWall and tower and citadel;Toying along the smoking cannon,And ramparts torn by shot and shell.It played along Wolfe’s Highland clans,Those kilted, plaided, fearless menFrom Scotland’s heathery hills afar,And Lowland vale, and loch, and glen.It burst on England’s lines of scarlet—Those living walls glowed like a flame—And flashed along their bristling steel,Resistless all in war’s dread game.Oh, it was a sight most glorious,Those silent lines abiding thereIn the glad light of that fair morning,Terribly grand, and yet so fair.Meanwhile, from Beauport and Point Lévis,Wolfe’s besieging batteries roared;Shaking the doomed and tottering town,As on the citadel they pouredA storm of iron, like a torrent,Rending and smashing everywhere;Filling the heroic defendersWith dread suffering and despair.And their calamity but deepens—A breathless messenger appears,And news of sudden, dreadful importFalls upon their startled ears,As they learn with dread amazementWolfe has climbed to Abraham’s Plains,And has made his dispositionsWith lightning strategy and pains.But Montcalm, the heroic Montcalm,Though o’erwhelmèd by surprise,Issues swift his ringing ordersAs from point to point he flies.And there was blaring then of trumpets,And the roar of trampling feet,And tumultuous preparationsTheir stern awaiting foes to meet.Ha! they issue forth in swift, hot haste,And form upon the noble plain,A chivalry worthy any cause,Their country’s laurels to maintain.Now they advance in swift array,Seven thousand Frenchmen side by side;Rolling upon their intrepid foes,They come, they come in undaunted pride.The issue is half a continent,But unmoved as if on parade,Wolfe’s valiant line awaiteth there,Invincible and undismayed.Aye, tumultuously the French come onTo sweep the British from the plain,And all along their furious linesBurst sheets of blinding smoke and flame.And as crash on crash of musketryLeaped in fierce incessant roar,The French continued to advance,And a murderous fire to pourOn Wolfe’s intrepid, impassive lines,That stood there awaiting the word;And obeying, even unto death,Not a man there flinched or stirred.What, still unmoved the British line?Though ghastly, gory gaps are tornThrough those gallant ranks unmovable,And of many a hero shorn?Still, still unheeding, impassive still?And no answering, no reply?And Montcalm’s ceaseless volleying linesAre drawing very, very nigh.All along those kilted, scarlet linesWolfe had flown with swift, hot speed;“Fire not,” he said, “without the command.Stand firm, brave hearts, and never heedMontcalm’s clamorous, advancing lines.Abide like rocks and never fear;Listen for the word, and be preparedWhen the fierce foe draws very near.”At last Wolfe’s ringing voice cried, “Fire!”And thus the welcome order came;And instantly from that gallant lineLeapt a withering sheet of flame.The roar resounded through the hills,And when the dense smoke rolled away,Revealed was the foe’s torn, bloody ranks,Where hundreds of their brave dead lay.Another volley is instantly pouredOn Montcalm’s now shattered line;Then with a cheer that waked the hills,And a grand rush that was sublime,They fell upon their struggling foesWith the bayonet’s deadly play,And swept the French from that gory fieldIn ruined, disorderly array.“They run! they run!” shouts anaide-de-camp.“Who run?” brave Wolfe quick cried.“The foe, sir,” and then Wolfe exclaimed:“God be praised,” and calmly died.For sorely hurt by the first French fire,Heroically leading the way,The beloved commander faltered notUntil won was that great day.And another of immortal fameWas on that great day laid lowOn the red field of Abraham’s Plains,By the great river’s ebb and flow.Montcalm, the e’er intrepid Montcalm,Beloved, revered, and honored so;A true patriot, with a great white soul,Gave his life there long years ago!And ’tis fitting now in after years,That a united brotherhoodShould bedew their mem’ry with our tears,Those two who on that great day stoodContending for their country’s cause.Time the barriers hath swept away,And a united people celebrateIn true abiding peace to-day.’Tis well that from that far-famed fieldA united monument should rise,Upbearing two illustrious namesToward the glory of the skies.There, towering o’er the famous scene,Keeping the watch of death evermore,Fierce storms of time shall not dissolveThe tribute by the river’s shore.
Wolfehad gained the Plains of AbrahamEre the slumbering sun uprose,Formed his lines, and calmly waitedThe onslaught of England’s foes.The September sun all goldenRose upon the glorious scene,Lighting up the hills far distant,And the mighty murmuring stream;Touching with peaceful, glowing fingersWall and tower and citadel;Toying along the smoking cannon,And ramparts torn by shot and shell.It played along Wolfe’s Highland clans,Those kilted, plaided, fearless menFrom Scotland’s heathery hills afar,And Lowland vale, and loch, and glen.It burst on England’s lines of scarlet—Those living walls glowed like a flame—And flashed along their bristling steel,Resistless all in war’s dread game.Oh, it was a sight most glorious,Those silent lines abiding thereIn the glad light of that fair morning,Terribly grand, and yet so fair.Meanwhile, from Beauport and Point Lévis,Wolfe’s besieging batteries roared;Shaking the doomed and tottering town,As on the citadel they pouredA storm of iron, like a torrent,Rending and smashing everywhere;Filling the heroic defendersWith dread suffering and despair.And their calamity but deepens—A breathless messenger appears,And news of sudden, dreadful importFalls upon their startled ears,As they learn with dread amazementWolfe has climbed to Abraham’s Plains,And has made his dispositionsWith lightning strategy and pains.But Montcalm, the heroic Montcalm,Though o’erwhelmèd by surprise,Issues swift his ringing ordersAs from point to point he flies.And there was blaring then of trumpets,And the roar of trampling feet,And tumultuous preparationsTheir stern awaiting foes to meet.Ha! they issue forth in swift, hot haste,And form upon the noble plain,A chivalry worthy any cause,Their country’s laurels to maintain.Now they advance in swift array,Seven thousand Frenchmen side by side;Rolling upon their intrepid foes,They come, they come in undaunted pride.The issue is half a continent,But unmoved as if on parade,Wolfe’s valiant line awaiteth there,Invincible and undismayed.Aye, tumultuously the French come onTo sweep the British from the plain,And all along their furious linesBurst sheets of blinding smoke and flame.And as crash on crash of musketryLeaped in fierce incessant roar,The French continued to advance,And a murderous fire to pourOn Wolfe’s intrepid, impassive lines,That stood there awaiting the word;And obeying, even unto death,Not a man there flinched or stirred.What, still unmoved the British line?Though ghastly, gory gaps are tornThrough those gallant ranks unmovable,And of many a hero shorn?Still, still unheeding, impassive still?And no answering, no reply?And Montcalm’s ceaseless volleying linesAre drawing very, very nigh.All along those kilted, scarlet linesWolfe had flown with swift, hot speed;“Fire not,” he said, “without the command.Stand firm, brave hearts, and never heedMontcalm’s clamorous, advancing lines.Abide like rocks and never fear;Listen for the word, and be preparedWhen the fierce foe draws very near.”At last Wolfe’s ringing voice cried, “Fire!”And thus the welcome order came;And instantly from that gallant lineLeapt a withering sheet of flame.The roar resounded through the hills,And when the dense smoke rolled away,Revealed was the foe’s torn, bloody ranks,Where hundreds of their brave dead lay.Another volley is instantly pouredOn Montcalm’s now shattered line;Then with a cheer that waked the hills,And a grand rush that was sublime,They fell upon their struggling foesWith the bayonet’s deadly play,And swept the French from that gory fieldIn ruined, disorderly array.“They run! they run!” shouts anaide-de-camp.“Who run?” brave Wolfe quick cried.“The foe, sir,” and then Wolfe exclaimed:“God be praised,” and calmly died.For sorely hurt by the first French fire,Heroically leading the way,The beloved commander faltered notUntil won was that great day.And another of immortal fameWas on that great day laid lowOn the red field of Abraham’s Plains,By the great river’s ebb and flow.Montcalm, the e’er intrepid Montcalm,Beloved, revered, and honored so;A true patriot, with a great white soul,Gave his life there long years ago!And ’tis fitting now in after years,That a united brotherhoodShould bedew their mem’ry with our tears,Those two who on that great day stoodContending for their country’s cause.Time the barriers hath swept away,And a united people celebrateIn true abiding peace to-day.’Tis well that from that far-famed fieldA united monument should rise,Upbearing two illustrious namesToward the glory of the skies.There, towering o’er the famous scene,Keeping the watch of death evermore,Fierce storms of time shall not dissolveThe tribute by the river’s shore.
Wolfehad gained the Plains of AbrahamEre the slumbering sun uprose,Formed his lines, and calmly waitedThe onslaught of England’s foes.The September sun all goldenRose upon the glorious scene,Lighting up the hills far distant,And the mighty murmuring stream;
Touching with peaceful, glowing fingersWall and tower and citadel;Toying along the smoking cannon,And ramparts torn by shot and shell.It played along Wolfe’s Highland clans,Those kilted, plaided, fearless menFrom Scotland’s heathery hills afar,And Lowland vale, and loch, and glen.
It burst on England’s lines of scarlet—Those living walls glowed like a flame—And flashed along their bristling steel,Resistless all in war’s dread game.Oh, it was a sight most glorious,Those silent lines abiding thereIn the glad light of that fair morning,Terribly grand, and yet so fair.
Meanwhile, from Beauport and Point Lévis,Wolfe’s besieging batteries roared;Shaking the doomed and tottering town,As on the citadel they pouredA storm of iron, like a torrent,Rending and smashing everywhere;Filling the heroic defendersWith dread suffering and despair.
And their calamity but deepens—A breathless messenger appears,And news of sudden, dreadful importFalls upon their startled ears,As they learn with dread amazementWolfe has climbed to Abraham’s Plains,And has made his dispositionsWith lightning strategy and pains.
But Montcalm, the heroic Montcalm,Though o’erwhelmèd by surprise,Issues swift his ringing ordersAs from point to point he flies.And there was blaring then of trumpets,And the roar of trampling feet,And tumultuous preparationsTheir stern awaiting foes to meet.
Ha! they issue forth in swift, hot haste,And form upon the noble plain,A chivalry worthy any cause,Their country’s laurels to maintain.Now they advance in swift array,Seven thousand Frenchmen side by side;Rolling upon their intrepid foes,They come, they come in undaunted pride.
The issue is half a continent,But unmoved as if on parade,Wolfe’s valiant line awaiteth there,Invincible and undismayed.Aye, tumultuously the French come onTo sweep the British from the plain,And all along their furious linesBurst sheets of blinding smoke and flame.
And as crash on crash of musketryLeaped in fierce incessant roar,The French continued to advance,And a murderous fire to pourOn Wolfe’s intrepid, impassive lines,That stood there awaiting the word;And obeying, even unto death,Not a man there flinched or stirred.
What, still unmoved the British line?Though ghastly, gory gaps are tornThrough those gallant ranks unmovable,And of many a hero shorn?Still, still unheeding, impassive still?And no answering, no reply?And Montcalm’s ceaseless volleying linesAre drawing very, very nigh.
All along those kilted, scarlet linesWolfe had flown with swift, hot speed;“Fire not,” he said, “without the command.Stand firm, brave hearts, and never heedMontcalm’s clamorous, advancing lines.Abide like rocks and never fear;Listen for the word, and be preparedWhen the fierce foe draws very near.”
At last Wolfe’s ringing voice cried, “Fire!”And thus the welcome order came;And instantly from that gallant lineLeapt a withering sheet of flame.The roar resounded through the hills,And when the dense smoke rolled away,Revealed was the foe’s torn, bloody ranks,Where hundreds of their brave dead lay.
Another volley is instantly pouredOn Montcalm’s now shattered line;Then with a cheer that waked the hills,And a grand rush that was sublime,They fell upon their struggling foesWith the bayonet’s deadly play,And swept the French from that gory fieldIn ruined, disorderly array.
“They run! they run!” shouts anaide-de-camp.“Who run?” brave Wolfe quick cried.“The foe, sir,” and then Wolfe exclaimed:“God be praised,” and calmly died.For sorely hurt by the first French fire,Heroically leading the way,The beloved commander faltered notUntil won was that great day.
And another of immortal fameWas on that great day laid lowOn the red field of Abraham’s Plains,By the great river’s ebb and flow.Montcalm, the e’er intrepid Montcalm,Beloved, revered, and honored so;A true patriot, with a great white soul,Gave his life there long years ago!
And ’tis fitting now in after years,That a united brotherhoodShould bedew their mem’ry with our tears,Those two who on that great day stoodContending for their country’s cause.Time the barriers hath swept away,And a united people celebrateIn true abiding peace to-day.
’Tis well that from that far-famed fieldA united monument should rise,Upbearing two illustrious namesToward the glory of the skies.There, towering o’er the famous scene,Keeping the watch of death evermore,Fierce storms of time shall not dissolveThe tribute by the river’s shore.