Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay;A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day—When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at youThrough hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.My wife said, as we talked of it together,It seemed as if some of our old farm weatherHad got tired of the sober hills of brown,Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!We went to church, and heard a sermon preached,Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,And lifted us up toward the town divine,Till we could almost see the steeples shine,And hear the mighty chariots as they rolledAlong the massive turnpikes made of gold.We had some music, so sweet-lipped and trueIt made me think of every flower I knew;And when, with benediction, the old pastorSaid "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master,It put my resolution to the rack,To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!We tried to come straight out, as Christians should,And bring away all of it that we could;But there were certain persons there to-day,Who, after church was over, clogged the way,And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles,Held a week-day reception in the aisles.Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame,He wants to get home safely with the same;And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,Intended, by some power, his mind to bringDown out of Heaven to every worldly thing—From office, and good methods to ensure it,To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.
Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay;A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day—When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at youThrough hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.My wife said, as we talked of it together,It seemed as if some of our old farm weatherHad got tired of the sober hills of brown,Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!
We went to church, and heard a sermon preached,Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,And lifted us up toward the town divine,Till we could almost see the steeples shine,And hear the mighty chariots as they rolledAlong the massive turnpikes made of gold.We had some music, so sweet-lipped and trueIt made me think of every flower I knew;And when, with benediction, the old pastorSaid "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master,It put my resolution to the rack,To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!
We tried to come straight out, as Christians should,And bring away all of it that we could;But there were certain persons there to-day,Who, after church was over, clogged the way,And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles,Held a week-day reception in the aisles.
Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame,He wants to get home safely with the same;And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,Intended, by some power, his mind to bringDown out of Heaven to every worldly thing—From office, and good methods to ensure it,To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.
These are the spires that were gleamingAll through my juvenile dreaming;Here the high belfries are singing:Gold invitations they're winging,Asking man through the charmed portal,Where he is once more immortal;Where he may hide from his cares,Under a shelter of prayers.Why do these halls, high and broad,Under the same constant God,Vary in structure and style—Differ, from chancel to aisle?Why forms and creeds so diverse?Why is my blessing your curse?Pondering here on the street,This is one reason I meet:Man's brain is devious and strange—Differs, in form and in range;So that God's fervid love-sun,Falling the same on each one,Differs in form and in hue,(Not the less precious or true)!Body and brain and heart—Temple of infinite art—You had no power to controlHues of your windows of soul!
These are the spires that were gleamingAll through my juvenile dreaming;Here the high belfries are singing:Gold invitations they're winging,Asking man through the charmed portal,Where he is once more immortal;Where he may hide from his cares,Under a shelter of prayers.Why do these halls, high and broad,Under the same constant God,Vary in structure and style—Differ, from chancel to aisle?Why forms and creeds so diverse?Why is my blessing your curse?Pondering here on the street,This is one reason I meet:
Man's brain is devious and strange—Differs, in form and in range;So that God's fervid love-sun,Falling the same on each one,Differs in form and in hue,(Not the less precious or true)!Body and brain and heart—Temple of infinite art—You had no power to controlHues of your windows of soul!
October5, 18—.
Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue!—what a startYou've got here in this city's feverish heart!There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,But some one's here to teach it, day and night;No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,But some one has it ready to his hand!And then the churches—thick and rich of yield,As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,Where any one the golden fruit can findAll ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece(Much too expensive, it might well be said,Ifbodies onlyneed be clothed and fed).And then the missions—regular district schools,Where transient men are taught eternal rules;Then the Salvation Army girls and boys,Who season their religion up with noise,And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the powerTo help keep silent even half an hour;But who take ragged wretches every day,Haul them into the straight and narrow way,Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it,And get them saved—almost before they know it!It's something good to make these people good,Who never go to church, and never would!God bless each woman, man, and child, I say,That leads His creatures in the heavenly way,Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means,Or march with drums and flags and tambourines!Then there's those men who've crept and crawled as lowAs even Satan cared to have them go;Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks,Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks,Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells,Have sinned their way through several different hells;Whose lives have been so terribly amissTo ever find worse worlds than they've made this;Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun,And been washed up as clean as any one,And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above;Till they themselves start off on deeds of love,And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow,"I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now."Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss,"What! can there be some square way out of this?"And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes,Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams!Oh you who shout or sing or chant or read—Whatever be your name or style or creed—If any one on earth a plan has got(Whether it's half as good as yours or not)To find a gate into the narrow way,And let in others that have gone astray——If there's a single chance to mortals givenBy which to slip poor mortals into Heaven,For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath,Or throw a scornful word into their path!Butinterfere with helpin their affairs,And push them with your money and your prayers!For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath,In this strange world and in the next one, both;And he who saves his fellow-men from pain,Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain?But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner,That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner,Unable even to follow my own view,Much less to counsel others how to do.I can't even eat—when I come right down to it,Without a bell to tell me when to do it.So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse,And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.
Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue!—what a startYou've got here in this city's feverish heart!There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,But some one's here to teach it, day and night;No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,But some one has it ready to his hand!
And then the churches—thick and rich of yield,As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,Where any one the golden fruit can findAll ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece(Much too expensive, it might well be said,Ifbodies onlyneed be clothed and fed).
And then the missions—regular district schools,Where transient men are taught eternal rules;Then the Salvation Army girls and boys,Who season their religion up with noise,And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the powerTo help keep silent even half an hour;But who take ragged wretches every day,Haul them into the straight and narrow way,Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it,And get them saved—almost before they know it!It's something good to make these people good,Who never go to church, and never would!
God bless each woman, man, and child, I say,That leads His creatures in the heavenly way,Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means,Or march with drums and flags and tambourines!
Then there's those men who've crept and crawled as lowAs even Satan cared to have them go;Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks,Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks,Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells,Have sinned their way through several different hells;Whose lives have been so terribly amissTo ever find worse worlds than they've made this;Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun,And been washed up as clean as any one,And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above;Till they themselves start off on deeds of love,And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow,"I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now."Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss,"What! can there be some square way out of this?"And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes,Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams!
Oh you who shout or sing or chant or read—Whatever be your name or style or creed—If any one on earth a plan has got(Whether it's half as good as yours or not)To find a gate into the narrow way,And let in others that have gone astray——If there's a single chance to mortals givenBy which to slip poor mortals into Heaven,For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath,Or throw a scornful word into their path!Butinterfere with helpin their affairs,And push them with your money and your prayers!For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath,In this strange world and in the next one, both;And he who saves his fellow-men from pain,Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain?But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner,That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner,Unable even to follow my own view,Much less to counsel others how to do.I can't even eat—when I come right down to it,Without a bell to tell me when to do it.So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse,And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.
I was present, one dayWhere both layman and priestWorshipped God in a wayThat was startling, at least:Over thirty in placeOn the stage, in a row,As is often the caseAt a minstrelsy show;In a uniform cladWas each one of them seen,And a banjo they had,And a loud tambourine.And they sung and they shoutedTheir spasmodic joys,Just as if they ne'er doubtedThat God loved a noise.And their phrases, though allNot deficient in points,A grammarian would callRather weak in the joints;And the aspirate soundWas adroitly misused,And The Language all round,Was assaulted and bruised;While the tunes that they sungIn bewildering throngs,Had been married, when young,To hilarious songs;And the folks in that place,Who this loud racket made,Were not bounded by raceOr condition or shade.
I was present, one dayWhere both layman and priestWorshipped God in a wayThat was startling, at least:Over thirty in placeOn the stage, in a row,As is often the caseAt a minstrelsy show;In a uniform cladWas each one of them seen,And a banjo they had,And a loud tambourine.And they sung and they shoutedTheir spasmodic joys,Just as if they ne'er doubtedThat God loved a noise.
And their phrases, though allNot deficient in points,A grammarian would callRather weak in the joints;And the aspirate soundWas adroitly misused,And The Language all round,Was assaulted and bruised;While the tunes that they sungIn bewildering throngs,Had been married, when young,To hilarious songs;And the folks in that place,Who this loud racket made,Were not bounded by raceOr condition or shade.
Now I love my own meeting,My own cosy pew,While mentally greetingFriends quietly true;And the Gospel dispensedWith a dignified grace,Born of reason clear-sensedAnd a faith firm of place.I love the trained voicesThat float down the aisles,Till the whole church rejoicesWith God's sweetest smiles.Have no sneer understoodFor the rest, when I sayI had rather get goodIn a civilized way.So this meeting had gratedSomewhat on my heart,And ere long I had waited,I thought to depart.But a young man arose,Looking sin-drenched and grim,As if rain-storms of woesHad descended on him;No such face you'd discernIn a leisurely search,If you took a chance turnThrough a civilized church;But his words, though not choice,To my feelings came nigh;There was growth in his voice,There was hope in his eye.And he said, "I'm a ladWith a life full of blame;Every step has been bad,Every hour was a shame.And for drink I would pawnAll within my control,From the clothes I had on,To my heart and my soul.I have drank the foul stuffIn my parents' hot tears;I have done crime enoughFor a hundred black years;But I came to this placeFor the help that I craved;I have seen Jesus's face,And I know I am saved."Then a man rose to view,When this youngster was done,And he said, "This is true;That young man is my son.He was drunk every day,And such terror would make,That I spurned him awayFrom my house, like a snake.We have suffered the worstThat can come from heart-fears;He is sober the firstI have seen him for years.I am full of such joyAs I never yet knew;And now, Robert, my boy,Home is open to you!"You may go home with me—Or may run on before;You've a glittering keyThat will open the door!Your mother is there,Praying for you e'en now;There is snow in her hair,There is pain on her brow.And when you have kissed herThe old-fashioned way,There's a brother and sisterWho've longed for this day;And whatever can befriend youOn earth, shall be done;May God's blessing attend you,My son—oh, my son!"Then the banjo struck in,And the tambourine jingled;There rose such a dinThat my blood fairly tingled.The vocalists screamedTill quite red in the face;But somehow it all seemedNot at all out of place!Now denouements immenseDo riot somehow take hold,Or dramatic eventsReach my heart, as of old;But my smiles could not hideThe fast-gathering tears,And I cheered, laughed, and cried,As I had not for years!And I thought, "Not amissAre this tumult and shout:Folks who save men like thisKnow what they are about.You who fight with God's swordFor the good of your kind—You can never affordTo leave these men behind.If these women I've seen,Should be pelted or cursed,I would step in between—I would take the blow first.They who draw souls aboveFrom the depths lowest down,Will not fail of God's loveOr to shine in His crown."
Now I love my own meeting,My own cosy pew,While mentally greetingFriends quietly true;And the Gospel dispensedWith a dignified grace,Born of reason clear-sensedAnd a faith firm of place.I love the trained voicesThat float down the aisles,Till the whole church rejoicesWith God's sweetest smiles.Have no sneer understoodFor the rest, when I sayI had rather get goodIn a civilized way.
So this meeting had gratedSomewhat on my heart,And ere long I had waited,I thought to depart.But a young man arose,Looking sin-drenched and grim,As if rain-storms of woesHad descended on him;
No such face you'd discernIn a leisurely search,If you took a chance turnThrough a civilized church;But his words, though not choice,To my feelings came nigh;There was growth in his voice,There was hope in his eye.
And he said, "I'm a ladWith a life full of blame;Every step has been bad,Every hour was a shame.And for drink I would pawnAll within my control,From the clothes I had on,To my heart and my soul.I have drank the foul stuffIn my parents' hot tears;I have done crime enoughFor a hundred black years;But I came to this placeFor the help that I craved;I have seen Jesus's face,And I know I am saved."
Then a man rose to view,When this youngster was done,And he said, "This is true;That young man is my son.He was drunk every day,And such terror would make,That I spurned him awayFrom my house, like a snake.We have suffered the worstThat can come from heart-fears;He is sober the firstI have seen him for years.I am full of such joyAs I never yet knew;And now, Robert, my boy,Home is open to you!
"You may go home with me—Or may run on before;You've a glittering keyThat will open the door!Your mother is there,Praying for you e'en now;There is snow in her hair,There is pain on her brow.And when you have kissed herThe old-fashioned way,There's a brother and sisterWho've longed for this day;And whatever can befriend youOn earth, shall be done;May God's blessing attend you,My son—oh, my son!"
Then the banjo struck in,And the tambourine jingled;There rose such a dinThat my blood fairly tingled.The vocalists screamedTill quite red in the face;But somehow it all seemedNot at all out of place!Now denouements immenseDo riot somehow take hold,Or dramatic eventsReach my heart, as of old;But my smiles could not hideThe fast-gathering tears,And I cheered, laughed, and cried,As I had not for years!And I thought, "Not amissAre this tumult and shout:Folks who save men like thisKnow what they are about.You who fight with God's swordFor the good of your kind—You can never affordTo leave these men behind.If these women I've seen,Should be pelted or cursed,I would step in between—I would take the blow first.They who draw souls aboveFrom the depths lowest down,Will not fail of God's loveOr to shine in His crown."
THE SALVATION ARMY.THE SALVATION ARMY.
The March of the Children
List to the sound of the drumming!Gaily the children are coming;Sweet as the smile of a fairy,Fresh as the blossoms they carry.Pride of the parents who love them,Pure as the azure above them,Free as the winds that caress them,Bright as the sunbeams that bless them.
List to the sound of the drumming!Gaily the children are coming;Sweet as the smile of a fairy,Fresh as the blossoms they carry.Pride of the parents who love them,Pure as the azure above them,Free as the winds that caress them,Bright as the sunbeams that bless them.
List to the voice-echoes ringing!Sweeter than birds they are singing;Thoughts that to virtue invite them,Wed unto airs that delight them.Truths that their future will cherish,Soul-planted, never to perish!Only to senses completer,Heaven's choicest music were sweeter!
List to the voice-echoes ringing!Sweeter than birds they are singing;Thoughts that to virtue invite them,Wed unto airs that delight them.Truths that their future will cherish,Soul-planted, never to perish!Only to senses completer,Heaven's choicest music were sweeter!
children marching
Virtue, unconscious and pretty,Walks through the streets of the city;See the gay bannerets flying,Mottoes and titles undying;Truths dearly hallowed and olden,Braided in strands that are golden;Words for the spirit's desiring,Sentences sweetly inspiring!
Virtue, unconscious and pretty,Walks through the streets of the city;See the gay bannerets flying,Mottoes and titles undying;Truths dearly hallowed and olden,Braided in strands that are golden;Words for the spirit's desiring,Sentences sweetly inspiring!
When, in a voice of caressing,Christ gave the children His blessing,'Twas not for one generation—But for each epoch and nation.So through the present itlingers,Shed from His bountifulfingers;So unto these it is given—Types of the angels inHeaven.
When, in a voice of caressing,Christ gave the children His blessing,'Twas not for one generation—But for each epoch and nation.So through the present itlingers,Shed from His bountifulfingers;So unto these it is given—Types of the angels inHeaven.
November 1, 18—.
It's quite the thing to "travel" nowadays(Although I do not think italwayspays),And see if distant ground in general looksAs mentioned in the papers and in books.I find, in sifting what few facts I know,Three ways of realizing things are so:First, when you're told them in such trusty shapeThat square belief isn't easy to escape.(There's lots of people—this town wouldn't hold them—Who don't know much excepting what is told them.)Second, what you've put on some mental shelf,By having seen and understood yourself.(How well we know things witnessed, largely liesOn how much brain there is behind our eyes.)The third way is the surest and the best(Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed):It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you,Until youfeel, from head to foot, 'tis true.I think, sometimes, when all is said and done,Feeling is all the senses joined in one.We'regoing to travel!—not so very farAs our new friends, the Fitzcumnoodles, are,Who cannot read their social title's clearUnless they ride twelve thousand miles a year,(I told them, with a philosophic smile,That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.)But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow,With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow,To where George Washington laid out a townThat several centuries won't see tumbled down!A city which, with all the sneaking sinnersThat come down there to steal their daily dinners,And all the human insects hovering nigh,Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie,And spite of all the bad weeds growing round,Has alwayssomegood folks upon the ground,And will be head-piece of the greatest nationThat ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.The Fitzcumnoodles, through their daughter Maud,Inform us that we ought to go abroad;The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned,From an extended trip have just returned;And so my eldest daughter, Isabel,Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well,Called on her in the progress of a walk,And had a pleasant little travel-talk;And after coming home misspent her timeIn putting what she heard there into rhymeAnd—lost it—not by accident, I fear;I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:
It's quite the thing to "travel" nowadays(Although I do not think italwayspays),And see if distant ground in general looksAs mentioned in the papers and in books.I find, in sifting what few facts I know,Three ways of realizing things are so:First, when you're told them in such trusty shapeThat square belief isn't easy to escape.(There's lots of people—this town wouldn't hold them—Who don't know much excepting what is told them.)Second, what you've put on some mental shelf,By having seen and understood yourself.(How well we know things witnessed, largely liesOn how much brain there is behind our eyes.)The third way is the surest and the best(Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed):It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you,Until youfeel, from head to foot, 'tis true.I think, sometimes, when all is said and done,Feeling is all the senses joined in one.
We'regoing to travel!—not so very farAs our new friends, the Fitzcumnoodles, are,Who cannot read their social title's clearUnless they ride twelve thousand miles a year,(I told them, with a philosophic smile,That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.)But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow,With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow,To where George Washington laid out a townThat several centuries won't see tumbled down!A city which, with all the sneaking sinnersThat come down there to steal their daily dinners,And all the human insects hovering nigh,Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie,And spite of all the bad weeds growing round,Has alwayssomegood folks upon the ground,And will be head-piece of the greatest nationThat ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.
The Fitzcumnoodles, through their daughter Maud,Inform us that we ought to go abroad;The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned,From an extended trip have just returned;And so my eldest daughter, Isabel,Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well,Called on her in the progress of a walk,And had a pleasant little travel-talk;And after coming home misspent her timeIn putting what she heard there into rhymeAnd—lost it—not by accident, I fear;I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:
Yes, we've been travelling, my dear,Three months, or such a matter,And it's a blessing to get clearOf all the clash and clatter!Ah! when I look the guide-book through,And see each queer place in there,'Tis hard to make it seem quite trueThat I myself have been there!Our voyage? Oh, of course 'twas gay—Delightful! splendid! glorious!We spurned the shore—we sped away—We rode the waves victorious.The first mate's mustache was so grand!The ocean sweet, though stormy(I was so sick I could not stand,But papa saw it for me).At Queenstown we saw land once more—Ground never looked so pretty!We took a steam-car near the shoreFor some light-sounding city.A very ordinary stoneWe had to kiss at Blarney;The beggars wouldn't let us aloneThat half-day at Killarney!The Giants' Causeway? 'Tis arrangedWith no regard to science;It must somehow of late have changed—At least we saw no giants.Some little funny scrubs of folksSold pictures, and were merry;The men were full of yarns and jokes,The women barefoot—very.Old Scotland? Yes, all in our powerWe did there to be thorough;We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour,Then straight to "Edinborough."At Abbotsford we made a stayOf half an hour precisely.(The ruins all along the wayWere ruined very nicely.)We "did" a mountain in the rain,And left the others undone,Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.And came by night to London.Long tunnels somewhere on the lineMade sound and darkness deeper;No; English scenery is not fine,Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.Oh, Paris! Paris! Paris! 'tisNo wonder, dear, that you goSo far into the ecstasiesAbout that Victor Hugo!He paints the city, high and low,With faithful pen and ready(I think, my dear, I ought to know—We drove there two hours steady).Through Switzerland by train. Yes, IEnjoyed it, in a measure;But still the mountains are too highTo see with any pleasure.Their tops—they made my neck quite stiff,Just stretching up to view them;And folks are very foolish ifThey clamber clear up to them!Rome, Venice, Naples, and the Rhine?We did them—do not doubt it;This guide-book here is very fine—'Twill tell you all about it.We've saved up Asia till next year,If business gets unravelled;What! going? Come again; and, dear,I will not seem so travelled.
Yes, we've been travelling, my dear,Three months, or such a matter,And it's a blessing to get clearOf all the clash and clatter!Ah! when I look the guide-book through,And see each queer place in there,'Tis hard to make it seem quite trueThat I myself have been there!
Our voyage? Oh, of course 'twas gay—Delightful! splendid! glorious!We spurned the shore—we sped away—We rode the waves victorious.The first mate's mustache was so grand!The ocean sweet, though stormy(I was so sick I could not stand,But papa saw it for me).
At Queenstown we saw land once more—Ground never looked so pretty!We took a steam-car near the shoreFor some light-sounding city.A very ordinary stoneWe had to kiss at Blarney;The beggars wouldn't let us aloneThat half-day at Killarney!
The Giants' Causeway? 'Tis arrangedWith no regard to science;It must somehow of late have changed—At least we saw no giants.Some little funny scrubs of folksSold pictures, and were merry;The men were full of yarns and jokes,The women barefoot—very.
Old Scotland? Yes, all in our powerWe did there to be thorough;We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour,Then straight to "Edinborough."At Abbotsford we made a stayOf half an hour precisely.(The ruins all along the wayWere ruined very nicely.)
We "did" a mountain in the rain,And left the others undone,Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.And came by night to London.Long tunnels somewhere on the lineMade sound and darkness deeper;No; English scenery is not fine,Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.
Oh, Paris! Paris! Paris! 'tisNo wonder, dear, that you goSo far into the ecstasiesAbout that Victor Hugo!He paints the city, high and low,With faithful pen and ready(I think, my dear, I ought to know—We drove there two hours steady).
Through Switzerland by train. Yes, IEnjoyed it, in a measure;But still the mountains are too highTo see with any pleasure.Their tops—they made my neck quite stiff,Just stretching up to view them;And folks are very foolish ifThey clamber clear up to them!
Rome, Venice, Naples, and the Rhine?We did them—do not doubt it;This guide-book here is very fine—'Twill tell you all about it.We've saved up Asia till next year,If business gets unravelled;What! going? Come again; and, dear,I will not seem so travelled.
Washington,November 3, 18—.
We'retravelling, and we're here! and what a town!I own, it picks me up and sets me down!I thought I had some idea of the place,And what its corporation lines embrace;I'd read the county papers every week,Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,And, with Imagination for a staff,Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated schemeTo prophesy how anything will seem.This city's new to me—I do not doubt it—As if I'd never heard a word about it!There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,And something even in the very air,And in the great variety of faces,Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,And in that monument that reaches high—The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,And in that dome, whose kingly size and heightContrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight—From these, and several hundred other thingsThis nation's lead-horse city at you flings,You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,Into another planet for a while!But men too weary to hold up their headsAre apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds;Then, having found one, and reclined within it,Forget about him in just half a minute.So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.
We'retravelling, and we're here! and what a town!I own, it picks me up and sets me down!I thought I had some idea of the place,And what its corporation lines embrace;I'd read the county papers every week,Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,And, with Imagination for a staff,Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."
But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated schemeTo prophesy how anything will seem.This city's new to me—I do not doubt it—As if I'd never heard a word about it!There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,And something even in the very air,And in the great variety of faces,Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,And in that monument that reaches high—The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,And in that dome, whose kingly size and heightContrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight—From these, and several hundred other thingsThis nation's lead-horse city at you flings,You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,Into another planet for a while!
But men too weary to hold up their headsAre apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds;Then, having found one, and reclined within it,Forget about him in just half a minute.So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.
[7] Or woman—let due praise to her be paid;A bed is never made until 'tismade.
[7] Or woman—let due praise to her be paid;A bed is never made until 'tismade.
Look North! A white-clad city fillsThis valley to its sloping hills;Here gleams the modest house of white,The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height.Beyond, a pledge of love to oneWho in two lands was Freedom's son—The holder of an endless debt—Our nation's brother, Lafayette.But yonder lines of costly homesAnd bristling spires and swelling domes,And far away the spreading farmsWhere thrift displays substantial charms,And hamlets creeping out of sight,And cities full of wealth and might,Must own the fatherhood of himWhose glory Time can never dim.All who can reckon Freedom's worthWould write across this whole broad earth,With pen dipped in the golden sun,The magic name of Washington!If we can keep the rules he gaveThis land he more than fought to save,Our future fame will glisten forthGrand as the winter-lighted North!
Look North! A white-clad city fillsThis valley to its sloping hills;Here gleams the modest house of white,The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height.Beyond, a pledge of love to oneWho in two lands was Freedom's son—The holder of an endless debt—Our nation's brother, Lafayette.But yonder lines of costly homesAnd bristling spires and swelling domes,And far away the spreading farmsWhere thrift displays substantial charms,And hamlets creeping out of sight,And cities full of wealth and might,Must own the fatherhood of himWhose glory Time can never dim.All who can reckon Freedom's worthWould write across this whole broad earth,With pen dipped in the golden sun,The magic name of Washington!If we can keep the rules he gaveThis land he more than fought to save,Our future fame will glisten forthGrand as the winter-lighted North!
FROM THE MONUMENT.FROM THE MONUMENT.
Look South!—where, in its coat of gray,The broad Potomac creeps away,And seeks the blue of distant skies;But pauses where the great chief liesWithin his humble, hallowed tomb,Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom.As glides this stream, great corse, past thee,First to the bay, and then the sea,So flowed thy life to rural rest,Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest.Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heartClimbed from all common greeds apart;To whom men's selfish ways were small,As from this tower, serenely tall(Built that all years thy fame may know),Men look while creeping there below!How weak was power to thy clear gaze,Builder of nations joined in one,Kindler of splendors still to blaze,Finder of glories just begun!Live on, great sleeper! as this stone,Highest from earth that man has known,So shall be ranked thy solid worth,Highest of heroes on the earth!Happy, secure, and cherished name,Love is the pillar of thy fame;Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth,Warm as the sunbeams of the South!
Look South!—where, in its coat of gray,The broad Potomac creeps away,And seeks the blue of distant skies;But pauses where the great chief liesWithin his humble, hallowed tomb,Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom.As glides this stream, great corse, past thee,First to the bay, and then the sea,So flowed thy life to rural rest,Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest.Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heartClimbed from all common greeds apart;To whom men's selfish ways were small,As from this tower, serenely tall(Built that all years thy fame may know),Men look while creeping there below!How weak was power to thy clear gaze,Builder of nations joined in one,Kindler of splendors still to blaze,Finder of glories just begun!Live on, great sleeper! as this stone,Highest from earth that man has known,So shall be ranked thy solid worth,Highest of heroes on the earth!Happy, secure, and cherished name,Love is the pillar of thy fame;Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth,Warm as the sunbeams of the South!
Look East! The Nation's castle wallsSpread out in massive beauty now;Their lofty dome and pictured hallsIn homage to this summit bow.Oh, well that from these palaced landsThe marble spire obeisance win;But for the one for whom it stands,This chieftain-town had never been!Yon plot, so full of brain and will,Had staid a bleak and lonely hill!If at five thousand dizzy feetThis shaft the whirling clouds could meet,Until our gaze for miles, might be,To the uncrowned but royal sea,'Twere not too much of honor then,To grant our crownless king of men.You who the Nation's laws indite,Look to this summit's honest white,Where, throned on walls that must endure,Pure fame entreats you to be pure;Until our glory be increased,Like sunbeams from the dazzling East!
Look East! The Nation's castle wallsSpread out in massive beauty now;Their lofty dome and pictured hallsIn homage to this summit bow.Oh, well that from these palaced landsThe marble spire obeisance win;But for the one for whom it stands,This chieftain-town had never been!Yon plot, so full of brain and will,Had staid a bleak and lonely hill!If at five thousand dizzy feetThis shaft the whirling clouds could meet,Until our gaze for miles, might be,To the uncrowned but royal sea,'Twere not too much of honor then,To grant our crownless king of men.You who the Nation's laws indite,Look to this summit's honest white,Where, throned on walls that must endure,Pure fame entreats you to be pure;Until our glory be increased,Like sunbeams from the dazzling East!
Look West! There lie the hilly fieldsWhere brothers fought through days of dread,Where mothers brooded o'er their dead,And soil the thrift of carnage yields;Where cannon roared and bullets sung,Till every hillock had a tongue.O Nation being and to be,That silent blood speaks loud to thee!God grant, if e'er our guns againMust tear the quivering flesh of men,The leaden hail-storm may be pressedAgainst some foul invader's breast—Against some alien tribe and zone—And not, as then, to kill our own!May all the fruitful strifes of peaceThe thrilling bonds of love increase;May yonder orb, in his quick changeFrom mountain range to mountain range,From valley to rich valley o'er,From river shore to river shore,From wave to wave—may yonder sunOne Nation count, and only one;Until he dips his fiery crestInto the ocean of the West!
Look West! There lie the hilly fieldsWhere brothers fought through days of dread,Where mothers brooded o'er their dead,And soil the thrift of carnage yields;Where cannon roared and bullets sung,Till every hillock had a tongue.O Nation being and to be,That silent blood speaks loud to thee!God grant, if e'er our guns againMust tear the quivering flesh of men,The leaden hail-storm may be pressedAgainst some foul invader's breast—Against some alien tribe and zone—And not, as then, to kill our own!May all the fruitful strifes of peaceThe thrilling bonds of love increase;May yonder orb, in his quick changeFrom mountain range to mountain range,From valley to rich valley o'er,From river shore to river shore,From wave to wave—may yonder sunOne Nation count, and only one;Until he dips his fiery crestInto the ocean of the West!
Look up! The phantom clouds of gray—Grim ghosts of storm—have passed away;The veiling of the sky is done,And downward shines the welcome sun.He kindles grand and peaceful firesUpon the city's domes and spires;He sends his strong magnetic glowThrough yonder moving throngs below.Thou art, O sky serene and clear,A symbol of our country here!What land in all this world of pain,This earth, where millions toil in vain,Where famine, pestilence, and strifePlay careless games with human life,Where Superstition clouds the soul,And heartless brains sad hearts control—What country, framed in frost or flowers,Can see so clear a sky as ours?Peace throws her mantle, broad and free,O'er all who peaceable will be;Plenty her sheltering flag doth waveO'er those who will but toil and save;Enlightenment each day shall riseFor all who do not cloud their eyes;While Liberty from every raceHas made this land a refuge-place.Let our deep thanks forever flyFar as the reaches of the sky!
Look up! The phantom clouds of gray—Grim ghosts of storm—have passed away;The veiling of the sky is done,And downward shines the welcome sun.He kindles grand and peaceful firesUpon the city's domes and spires;He sends his strong magnetic glowThrough yonder moving throngs below.Thou art, O sky serene and clear,A symbol of our country here!What land in all this world of pain,This earth, where millions toil in vain,Where famine, pestilence, and strifePlay careless games with human life,Where Superstition clouds the soul,And heartless brains sad hearts control—What country, framed in frost or flowers,Can see so clear a sky as ours?Peace throws her mantle, broad and free,O'er all who peaceable will be;Plenty her sheltering flag doth waveO'er those who will but toil and save;Enlightenment each day shall riseFor all who do not cloud their eyes;While Liberty from every raceHas made this land a refuge-place.Let our deep thanks forever flyFar as the reaches of the sky!
November 5, 18—.
Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lostThat trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost!Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun;The houseHEslept in when his work was done;The trees he planted with his own brave hand,That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land:The humble tomb he lies in, which—like me—Pilgrims from all the world have come to see:These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile,And preach a funeral sermon all the while!Even the river-boats upon their wayToll bells, as if he'd died that very day!And through it all this precept may be traced:The noblest men are simplest in their taste.I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made,And all the surface-honors to him paid;But I don't think the people that come thereBring any heartfelt sympathy to spare;While every true-brained patriot, night and morn,Thanks God for letting Washington be born!While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb,A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom;And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head,And smoking a small white cigar, he said:"Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten meAs to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?"Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorgeThe fool-idea of calling that man 'George;'His body, mind, and soul were firmly setHigher, no doubt, than you will ever get.He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true,When friends are near, to be half-named by you.Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel,I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."He looked at me a moment in surprise,And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes;But I was quite indignant, and could feelThe blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal.I said, "One minute more will be allowed;"The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.Irreverence is the fashion, nowadays,And shows itself in good and evil ways;Its mission is legitimate and clearIn cases where there's nothing to revere;But they who use it must be judgment-fixed,And not get reverend and unreverendmixed.
Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lostThat trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost!Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun;The houseHEslept in when his work was done;The trees he planted with his own brave hand,That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land:The humble tomb he lies in, which—like me—Pilgrims from all the world have come to see:These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile,And preach a funeral sermon all the while!Even the river-boats upon their wayToll bells, as if he'd died that very day!And through it all this precept may be traced:The noblest men are simplest in their taste.
I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made,And all the surface-honors to him paid;But I don't think the people that come thereBring any heartfelt sympathy to spare;While every true-brained patriot, night and morn,Thanks God for letting Washington be born!
While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb,A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom;And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head,And smoking a small white cigar, he said:"Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten meAs to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?"Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorgeThe fool-idea of calling that man 'George;'His body, mind, and soul were firmly setHigher, no doubt, than you will ever get.He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true,When friends are near, to be half-named by you.Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel,I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."
He looked at me a moment in surprise,And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes;But I was quite indignant, and could feelThe blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal.I said, "One minute more will be allowed;"The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.
Irreverence is the fashion, nowadays,And shows itself in good and evil ways;Its mission is legitimate and clearIn cases where there's nothing to revere;But they who use it must be judgment-fixed,And not get reverend and unreverendmixed.
Through these broad streets do I fly—Furlongs and miles I defy,Till the "magnificent distance"Vanishes out of existence.Let me with pencil prolongStrains of the Bicycler's Song:
Through these broad streets do I fly—Furlongs and miles I defy,Till the "magnificent distance"Vanishes out of existence.Let me with pencil prolongStrains of the Bicycler's Song: