Methinks I hear those tuneful chimes,Borne on the breath of morn,Proclaiming to the silent worldAnother Sabbath born.With solemn sound they echo throughThe stilly summer air,Winning the heart of wayward manUnto the house of prayer!New England's sweet church-going bells,Their memory's very dear;And oft in dreams we seem to hearThem ringing loud and clear.Again we see the village-spirePointing toward the skies;And hear our reverend pastor tellOf life that never dies!We see him moving down the aisle,In light subdued and dim;The while the organ's swelling notesChant forth the grateful hymn.The forms of those our childhood knew,By meadow, grove and hill,Are gathering round with kindly looks,As if they loved us still!In careless hours of gladsome youth,'Twas our thrice-blessed lot,To dwell upon New England's shores,Where God is not forgot.Where temples to his name are raised,And where, on bended knee,The Christian sends to heavenly courtsThe worship of the free!New England's Sabbath chimes!—we loveUpon those words to dwell;They fall upon our spirits withA sweetly-soothing spell,Bringing to mind those brighter daysWhen hope beamed on our way,And life seemed to our souls but onePure and unclouded day!New England's Sabbath bells!—when lastWe heard their merry chime,The air was rife with pleasant sounds;For 'twas the glad spring-time!The robin to those tuneful pealsPoured forth a thrilling strain;O, 'tis our dearest hope to hearThose Sabbath bells again!For now we're many a weary mileFrom that New England home;In lands where laughing summer lies,Our wandering footsteps roam.But yet those sweetly-chiming bellsThose heavenward-pointing spires,Awaken e'er the brightest glowFrom memory's vestal-fires.
Methinks I hear those tuneful chimes,Borne on the breath of morn,Proclaiming to the silent worldAnother Sabbath born.With solemn sound they echo throughThe stilly summer air,Winning the heart of wayward manUnto the house of prayer!
Methinks I hear those tuneful chimes,
Borne on the breath of morn,
Proclaiming to the silent world
Another Sabbath born.
With solemn sound they echo through
The stilly summer air,
Winning the heart of wayward man
Unto the house of prayer!
New England's sweet church-going bells,Their memory's very dear;And oft in dreams we seem to hearThem ringing loud and clear.Again we see the village-spirePointing toward the skies;And hear our reverend pastor tellOf life that never dies!
New England's sweet church-going bells,
Their memory's very dear;
And oft in dreams we seem to hear
Them ringing loud and clear.
Again we see the village-spire
Pointing toward the skies;
And hear our reverend pastor tell
Of life that never dies!
We see him moving down the aisle,In light subdued and dim;The while the organ's swelling notesChant forth the grateful hymn.The forms of those our childhood knew,By meadow, grove and hill,Are gathering round with kindly looks,As if they loved us still!
We see him moving down the aisle,
In light subdued and dim;
The while the organ's swelling notes
Chant forth the grateful hymn.
The forms of those our childhood knew,
By meadow, grove and hill,
Are gathering round with kindly looks,
As if they loved us still!
In careless hours of gladsome youth,'Twas our thrice-blessed lot,To dwell upon New England's shores,Where God is not forgot.Where temples to his name are raised,And where, on bended knee,The Christian sends to heavenly courtsThe worship of the free!
In careless hours of gladsome youth,
'Twas our thrice-blessed lot,
To dwell upon New England's shores,
Where God is not forgot.
Where temples to his name are raised,
And where, on bended knee,
The Christian sends to heavenly courts
The worship of the free!
New England's Sabbath chimes!—we loveUpon those words to dwell;They fall upon our spirits withA sweetly-soothing spell,Bringing to mind those brighter daysWhen hope beamed on our way,And life seemed to our souls but onePure and unclouded day!
New England's Sabbath chimes!—we love
Upon those words to dwell;
They fall upon our spirits with
A sweetly-soothing spell,
Bringing to mind those brighter days
When hope beamed on our way,
And life seemed to our souls but one
Pure and unclouded day!
New England's Sabbath bells!—when lastWe heard their merry chime,The air was rife with pleasant sounds;For 'twas the glad spring-time!The robin to those tuneful pealsPoured forth a thrilling strain;O, 'tis our dearest hope to hearThose Sabbath bells again!
New England's Sabbath bells!—when last
We heard their merry chime,
The air was rife with pleasant sounds;
For 'twas the glad spring-time!
The robin to those tuneful peals
Poured forth a thrilling strain;
O, 'tis our dearest hope to hear
Those Sabbath bells again!
For now we're many a weary mileFrom that New England home;In lands where laughing summer lies,Our wandering footsteps roam.But yet those sweetly-chiming bellsThose heavenward-pointing spires,Awaken e'er the brightest glowFrom memory's vestal-fires.
For now we're many a weary mile
From that New England home;
In lands where laughing summer lies,
Our wandering footsteps roam.
But yet those sweetly-chiming bells
Those heavenward-pointing spires,
Awaken e'er the brightest glow
From memory's vestal-fires.
List I to the hurried beatingsOf my heart;How its quickened, loud repeatingsMake me start!Often do I hear it throbbingFast and wild;As I've heard it, after sobbing,When a child.Why so wild, so swift and heated,Little heart?Is there something in thee seated,Baffling art?Pain with all thy throbs is blended—Pain so dread!Oftentimes life seems suspendedBy a thread!Then thou'lt grow so still—like oceanIn its rest;—Till I scarce can feel a motionIn my breast.Think'st thy house is dark and dreary,Veiled in night?Art thou pining, sad and weary,For the light?Wouldst be free from the dominionsThat control;Spreading all thy golden pinionsToward the goal?Gladly, gladly, would I free theeFrom Earth's thrall!With what bliss and joy to see theeRise o'er all!But 'tis not for me to aid theeIn thy flight;For the Holy One who made thee,Doeth right.When his own good time arriveth,Then will He,From the load with which thou strivest,Set thee free.
List I to the hurried beatingsOf my heart;How its quickened, loud repeatingsMake me start!
List I to the hurried beatings
Of my heart;
How its quickened, loud repeatings
Make me start!
Often do I hear it throbbingFast and wild;As I've heard it, after sobbing,When a child.
Often do I hear it throbbing
Fast and wild;
As I've heard it, after sobbing,
When a child.
Why so wild, so swift and heated,Little heart?Is there something in thee seated,Baffling art?
Why so wild, so swift and heated,
Little heart?
Is there something in thee seated,
Baffling art?
Pain with all thy throbs is blended—Pain so dread!Oftentimes life seems suspendedBy a thread!
Pain with all thy throbs is blended—
Pain so dread!
Oftentimes life seems suspended
By a thread!
Then thou'lt grow so still—like oceanIn its rest;—Till I scarce can feel a motionIn my breast.
Then thou'lt grow so still—like ocean
In its rest;—
Till I scarce can feel a motion
In my breast.
Think'st thy house is dark and dreary,Veiled in night?Art thou pining, sad and weary,For the light?
Think'st thy house is dark and dreary,
Veiled in night?
Art thou pining, sad and weary,
For the light?
Wouldst be free from the dominionsThat control;Spreading all thy golden pinionsToward the goal?
Wouldst be free from the dominions
That control;
Spreading all thy golden pinions
Toward the goal?
Gladly, gladly, would I free theeFrom Earth's thrall!With what bliss and joy to see theeRise o'er all!
Gladly, gladly, would I free thee
From Earth's thrall!
With what bliss and joy to see thee
Rise o'er all!
But 'tis not for me to aid theeIn thy flight;For the Holy One who made thee,Doeth right.
But 'tis not for me to aid thee
In thy flight;
For the Holy One who made thee,
Doeth right.
When his own good time arriveth,Then will He,From the load with which thou strivest,Set thee free.
When his own good time arriveth,
Then will He,
From the load with which thou strivest,
Set thee free.
Our Helen is a "perfect love"Of a blue-eyed baby;When she's grown she'll be a belle,And a "Venus," may be.Such a cunning little mouth,Lips as red as cherry,And she smiles on all aroundIn a way so merry.Laughs, and crows, and claps her hands,Springs, and hops, and dances,As if her little brain overflowedWith lively, tripping fancies.Then she'll arch her pretty neck,And toss her head so queenly,And, when she's weary, fall asleepAnd slumber so serenely.She has a cunning kind of wayOf looking sly and witty,As if to say, in baby words,"I know I'm very pretty."She bites her "mammy," scratches "nurse,"And makes droll mouths at "pappy;"We can but love the roguish thing,She looks so bright and happy.The dinner-table seems to beThe crown of all her wishes,For there the gypsy's sure to haveA hand in all the dishes.But why should we essay to singHer thousand sprightly graces?She has the merriest of ways,The prettiest of faces.We know she'll grow a peerless one,With skin all white and pearly;And laughing eyes, and auburn locks,All silky, soft and curly.Her baby laugh and sportive glee,Her spirit's airy lightness,Surround the pleasant prairie homeWith hues of magic brightness.
Our Helen is a "perfect love"Of a blue-eyed baby;When she's grown she'll be a belle,And a "Venus," may be.
Our Helen is a "perfect love"
Of a blue-eyed baby;
When she's grown she'll be a belle,
And a "Venus," may be.
Such a cunning little mouth,Lips as red as cherry,And she smiles on all aroundIn a way so merry.
Such a cunning little mouth,
Lips as red as cherry,
And she smiles on all around
In a way so merry.
Laughs, and crows, and claps her hands,Springs, and hops, and dances,As if her little brain overflowedWith lively, tripping fancies.
Laughs, and crows, and claps her hands,
Springs, and hops, and dances,
As if her little brain overflowed
With lively, tripping fancies.
Then she'll arch her pretty neck,And toss her head so queenly,And, when she's weary, fall asleepAnd slumber so serenely.
Then she'll arch her pretty neck,
And toss her head so queenly,
And, when she's weary, fall asleep
And slumber so serenely.
She has a cunning kind of wayOf looking sly and witty,As if to say, in baby words,"I know I'm very pretty."
She has a cunning kind of way
Of looking sly and witty,
As if to say, in baby words,
"I know I'm very pretty."
She bites her "mammy," scratches "nurse,"And makes droll mouths at "pappy;"We can but love the roguish thing,She looks so bright and happy.
She bites her "mammy," scratches "nurse,"
And makes droll mouths at "pappy;"
We can but love the roguish thing,
She looks so bright and happy.
The dinner-table seems to beThe crown of all her wishes,For there the gypsy's sure to haveA hand in all the dishes.
The dinner-table seems to be
The crown of all her wishes,
For there the gypsy's sure to have
A hand in all the dishes.
But why should we essay to singHer thousand sprightly graces?She has the merriest of ways,The prettiest of faces.
But why should we essay to sing
Her thousand sprightly graces?
She has the merriest of ways,
The prettiest of faces.
We know she'll grow a peerless one,With skin all white and pearly;And laughing eyes, and auburn locks,All silky, soft and curly.
We know she'll grow a peerless one,
With skin all white and pearly;
And laughing eyes, and auburn locks,
All silky, soft and curly.
Her baby laugh and sportive glee,Her spirit's airy lightness,Surround the pleasant prairie homeWith hues of magic brightness.
Her baby laugh and sportive glee,
Her spirit's airy lightness,
Surround the pleasant prairie home
With hues of magic brightness.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,Its gossamer fineness I'll sing to you;For a delicate fabric in sooth it was,All trimmed and finified off with gauze.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,How well I remember thy azure hue!To church I wore it, one pleasant day,Bedecked in ribbons of fanciful ray;And all the while I sat on my seatI thought of naught save my bonnet so neat.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,Broke not my heart when I bade thee adieu?When service was over, my steps I bentTowards home, a-nodding my head as I wentBut, alas for my bonnet! there came a windAnd blew it away, for the strings were not pinned.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,What shifting scenes have been thine to pass through!I raised my eyes to the calm, blue sky,There sailed my bonnet serene and high!O, what a feeling of hopeless woeStole over me then, no heart may know!My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,As clear as the sky was thy azure hue!'Twas vain to mourn for my bonnet, and yetIt taught me a lesson I shall not forget;'Twas, never to make you an idol of clay,For when you best love them they'll fly away.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,I loved thee well, but thou wert untrue!
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,Its gossamer fineness I'll sing to you;For a delicate fabric in sooth it was,All trimmed and finified off with gauze.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,How well I remember thy azure hue!
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
Its gossamer fineness I'll sing to you;
For a delicate fabric in sooth it was,
All trimmed and finified off with gauze.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
How well I remember thy azure hue!
To church I wore it, one pleasant day,Bedecked in ribbons of fanciful ray;And all the while I sat on my seatI thought of naught save my bonnet so neat.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,Broke not my heart when I bade thee adieu?
To church I wore it, one pleasant day,
Bedecked in ribbons of fanciful ray;
And all the while I sat on my seat
I thought of naught save my bonnet so neat.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
Broke not my heart when I bade thee adieu?
When service was over, my steps I bentTowards home, a-nodding my head as I wentBut, alas for my bonnet! there came a windAnd blew it away, for the strings were not pinned.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,What shifting scenes have been thine to pass through!
When service was over, my steps I bent
Towards home, a-nodding my head as I went
But, alas for my bonnet! there came a wind
And blew it away, for the strings were not pinned.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
What shifting scenes have been thine to pass through!
I raised my eyes to the calm, blue sky,There sailed my bonnet serene and high!O, what a feeling of hopeless woeStole over me then, no heart may know!My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,As clear as the sky was thy azure hue!
I raised my eyes to the calm, blue sky,
There sailed my bonnet serene and high!
O, what a feeling of hopeless woe
Stole over me then, no heart may know!
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
As clear as the sky was thy azure hue!
'Twas vain to mourn for my bonnet, and yetIt taught me a lesson I shall not forget;'Twas, never to make you an idol of clay,For when you best love them they'll fly away.My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,I loved thee well, but thou wert untrue!
'Twas vain to mourn for my bonnet, and yet
It taught me a lesson I shall not forget;
'Twas, never to make you an idol of clay,
For when you best love them they'll fly away.
My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,
I loved thee well, but thou wert untrue!
When the frost-king clothed the forestsIn a flood of gorgeous dyes,Death called little dark-browed MarthaTo her mansion in the skies.'Twas a calm October SabbathWhen the bell with solemn soundKnelled her to her quiet slumbersLow down in the darksome ground.Far away, where sun and summerReign in glory all the year,Was the land she left behind her,To her simple heart so dear.There a mother and a brother,Meeting oft at close of day,Spoke in tender, tearful whispersOf the loved one far away."I am thinking," said the mother,"How much Martha'll get to know,And how smart and bright 'twill make her,Travellin' round the country so.'Spect she'll be a mighty lady,Shinin' jewels in her ears;But I hope she won't forget us,—Dat is what dis poor heart fears.""'Deed she won't," then spoke the brother,"Martha'll love us just as wellAs before she parted from us,—Trust me, mammy, I can tell."Then he passed a hand in silenceO'er his damp and swarthy brow,Brushed a tear from off the eyelid,—"O that she were with us now!""Pshaw! don't cry, Lem," said the mother,"There's no need of that at all;Massa said he'd bring her to usWhen the nuts began to fall.The pecans will soon be rattlingFrom the tall plantation trees,She'll be here to help us pick them,Brisk and merry as you please."Thus they talked, while she they waitedFrom the earth had passed away;Walked no more in pleasant places,Saw no more the light of day;Knew no more of toilsome labor,Spiteful threats or angry blows;For the Heavenly One had called herEarly from a life of woes.Folded we the tiny fingersOn the cold, unmoving breast;Robed her in a decent garment,For her long and dreamless rest;And when o'er the tranquil SabbathEvening's rays began to fall,Followed her with heavy footstepsTo the home that waits us all.As we paused beside the churchyard,Where the tall green maples rise,Strangers came and viewed the sleeper,With sad wonder in their eyes;While my thoughts flew to that mother,And that brother far away:How they'd weep and wail, if consciousThis was Martha's burial day!When the coffin had been loweredCarefully into the ground,And the heavy sods fell on itWith a cold and hollow sound,Thought I, as we hastened homewards,By the day's expiring light,Martha never slept so sweetlyAs she'll sleep this Sabbath night.
When the frost-king clothed the forestsIn a flood of gorgeous dyes,Death called little dark-browed MarthaTo her mansion in the skies.'Twas a calm October SabbathWhen the bell with solemn soundKnelled her to her quiet slumbersLow down in the darksome ground.
When the frost-king clothed the forests
In a flood of gorgeous dyes,
Death called little dark-browed Martha
To her mansion in the skies.
'Twas a calm October Sabbath
When the bell with solemn sound
Knelled her to her quiet slumbers
Low down in the darksome ground.
Far away, where sun and summerReign in glory all the year,Was the land she left behind her,To her simple heart so dear.There a mother and a brother,Meeting oft at close of day,Spoke in tender, tearful whispersOf the loved one far away.
Far away, where sun and summer
Reign in glory all the year,
Was the land she left behind her,
To her simple heart so dear.
There a mother and a brother,
Meeting oft at close of day,
Spoke in tender, tearful whispers
Of the loved one far away.
"I am thinking," said the mother,"How much Martha'll get to know,And how smart and bright 'twill make her,Travellin' round the country so.'Spect she'll be a mighty lady,Shinin' jewels in her ears;But I hope she won't forget us,—Dat is what dis poor heart fears."
"I am thinking," said the mother,
"How much Martha'll get to know,
And how smart and bright 'twill make her,
Travellin' round the country so.
'Spect she'll be a mighty lady,
Shinin' jewels in her ears;
But I hope she won't forget us,—
Dat is what dis poor heart fears."
"'Deed she won't," then spoke the brother,"Martha'll love us just as wellAs before she parted from us,—Trust me, mammy, I can tell."Then he passed a hand in silenceO'er his damp and swarthy brow,Brushed a tear from off the eyelid,—"O that she were with us now!"
"'Deed she won't," then spoke the brother,
"Martha'll love us just as well
As before she parted from us,—
Trust me, mammy, I can tell."
Then he passed a hand in silence
O'er his damp and swarthy brow,
Brushed a tear from off the eyelid,—
"O that she were with us now!"
"Pshaw! don't cry, Lem," said the mother,"There's no need of that at all;Massa said he'd bring her to usWhen the nuts began to fall.The pecans will soon be rattlingFrom the tall plantation trees,She'll be here to help us pick them,Brisk and merry as you please."
"Pshaw! don't cry, Lem," said the mother,
"There's no need of that at all;
Massa said he'd bring her to us
When the nuts began to fall.
The pecans will soon be rattling
From the tall plantation trees,
She'll be here to help us pick them,
Brisk and merry as you please."
Thus they talked, while she they waitedFrom the earth had passed away;Walked no more in pleasant places,Saw no more the light of day;Knew no more of toilsome labor,Spiteful threats or angry blows;For the Heavenly One had called herEarly from a life of woes.
Thus they talked, while she they waited
From the earth had passed away;
Walked no more in pleasant places,
Saw no more the light of day;
Knew no more of toilsome labor,
Spiteful threats or angry blows;
For the Heavenly One had called her
Early from a life of woes.
Folded we the tiny fingersOn the cold, unmoving breast;Robed her in a decent garment,For her long and dreamless rest;And when o'er the tranquil SabbathEvening's rays began to fall,Followed her with heavy footstepsTo the home that waits us all.
Folded we the tiny fingers
On the cold, unmoving breast;
Robed her in a decent garment,
For her long and dreamless rest;
And when o'er the tranquil Sabbath
Evening's rays began to fall,
Followed her with heavy footsteps
To the home that waits us all.
As we paused beside the churchyard,Where the tall green maples rise,Strangers came and viewed the sleeper,With sad wonder in their eyes;While my thoughts flew to that mother,And that brother far away:How they'd weep and wail, if consciousThis was Martha's burial day!
As we paused beside the churchyard,
Where the tall green maples rise,
Strangers came and viewed the sleeper,
With sad wonder in their eyes;
While my thoughts flew to that mother,
And that brother far away:
How they'd weep and wail, if conscious
This was Martha's burial day!
When the coffin had been loweredCarefully into the ground,And the heavy sods fell on itWith a cold and hollow sound,Thought I, as we hastened homewards,By the day's expiring light,Martha never slept so sweetlyAs she'll sleep this Sabbath night.
When the coffin had been lowered
Carefully into the ground,
And the heavy sods fell on it
With a cold and hollow sound,
Thought I, as we hastened homewards,
By the day's expiring light,
Martha never slept so sweetly
As she'll sleep this Sabbath night.