I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,In the fragrant orchard close,And around me floats the scented air,With its wave-like tidal flows.I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,And call no king my peer;For is not this the rare, sweet time,The blossoming time of the year?I lie on a couch of downy grass,With delicate blossoms strewn,And I feel the throb of Nature's heartResponsive to my own.Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,That maketh life so dear;For is not this the rare, sweet time,The blossoming time of the year?I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,The delicate blue of the sky,And the changing clouds with their marvellous tintsThat drift so lazily by.And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,And Heaven, it seemeth near;Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,The blossoming time of the year?
It is the year's high noon,The earth sweet incense yields,And o'er the fresh, green fieldsBends the clear sky of June.I leave the crowded streets,The hum of busy life,Its clamor and its strife,To breathe thy perfumed sweets.O rare and golden hours!The bird's melodious song,Wavelike, is borne alongUpon a strand of flowers.I wander far away,Where, through the forest trees,Sports the cool summer breeze,In wild and wanton play.A patriarchal elmIts stately form uprears,Which twice a hundred yearsHas ruled this woodland realm.I sit beneath its shade,And watch, with careless eye,The brook that babbles by,And cools the leafy glade.In truth I wonder not,That in the ancient daysThe temples of God's praiseWere grove and leafy grot.The noblest ever planned,With quaint device and rare,By man, can ill compareWith these from God's own hand.Pilgrim with way-worn feet,Who, treading life's dull round,No true repose hast found,Come to this green retreat.For bird, and flower, and tree,Green fields, and woodland wild,Shall bear, with voices mild,Sweet messages to thee.
Throw open wide your golden gates,O poet-landed month of June,And waft me, on your spicy breath,The melody of birds in tune.O fairest palace of the three,Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,I gaze upon your leafy courtsFrom out the vestibule of May.I fain would tread your garden walks,Or in your shady bowers recline;Then open wide your golden gates,And make them mine, and make them mine.
A VIOLET grew by the river-side,And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;While over the fields, on the scented air,It breathed a rich perfume.But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,And its portals were opened wide;And the heavy rain beat down the flowerThat grew by the river-side.Not far away in a pleasant home,There lived a little boy,Whose cheerful face and childish graceFilled every heart with joy.He wandered one day to the river's verge,With no one near to save;And the heart that we loved with a boundless loveWas stilled in the restless wave.The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,And we bade farewell to joy;For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tieTo the grave of the little boy.The birds still sing in the leafy treeThat shadows the open door;We heed them not, for we think of the voiceThat we shall hear no more.We think of him at eventide,And gaze on his vacant chairWith a longing heart that will scarce believeThat Charlie is not there.We seem to hear his ringing laugh,And his bounding step at the door;But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,We shall never hear them more!We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,In the pleasant summer hours;We will speak his name in a softened voice,And cover his grave with flowers;We will think of him in his heavenly home,—In his heavenly home so fair;And we will trust with a hopeful trustThat we shall meet him there.
IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill,Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,Has he been playing truant this long summer day?I listened a moment; more clear and more shrillRang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for.I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hillRang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hillRang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears,I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again.The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell,I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him untilYou give me some reason for whipping poor Will.I listened a moment, as if for reply,But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry.I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."
I wrote my name upon the sand,And trusted it would stand for aye;But, soon, alas! the refluent seaHad washed my feeble lines away.I carved my name upon the wood,And, after years, returned again;I missed the shadow of the treeThat stretched of old upon the plain.To solid marble next, my nameI gave as a perpetual trust;An earthquake rent it to its base,And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.All these have failed. In wiser moodI turn and ask myself, "What then?"If I would have my name endure,I'll write it on the hearts of men,In characters of living light,Of kindly deeds and actions wrought.And these, beyond the touch of time,Shall live immortal as my thought.
My Charlie has gone to the war,My Charlie so brave and tall;He left his plough in the furrow,And flew at his country's call.May God in safety keep him,—My precious boy—my all!My heart is pining to see him;I miss him every day;My heart is weary with waiting,And sick of the long delay,—But I know his country needs him,And I could not bid him stay.I remember how his face flushed,And how his color came,When the flash from the guns of SumterLit the whole land with flame,And darkened our country's bannerWith the crimson hue of shame."Mother," he said, then faltered,—I felt his mute appeal;I paused—if you are a mother,You know what mothers feel,When called to yield their dear onesTo the cruel bullet and steel.My heart stood still for a moment,Struck with a mighty woe;A faint as of death came o'er me,I am a mother, you know,But I sternly checked my weakness,And firmly bade him "Go."Wherever the fight is fiercestI know that my boy will be;Wherever the need is sorestOf the stout arms of the free.May he prove as true to his countryAs he has been true to me.My home is lonely without him,My hearth bereft of joy,The thought of him who has left meMy constant sad employ;But God has been good to the mother,—She shall not blush for her boy.
When the clouds in the Western skyFlush red with the setting sun,—When the veil of twilight falls,And the busy day is done,—I sit and watch the clouds,With their crimson hues alight,And ponder with anxious heart,Oh, where is my boy to-night?It is just a year to-daySince he bade me a gay good-by,To march where banners float,And the deadly missiles fly.As I marked his martial stepI felt my color riseWith all a mother's pride,And my heart was in my eyes.There's a little room close by,Where I often used to creepIn the hush of the summer nightTo watch my boy asleep.But he who used to restBeneath the spread so whiteIs far away from me now,—Oh, where is my boy to-night?Perchance in the gathering night,With slow and weary feet,By the light of Southern stars,He paces his lonely beat.Does he think of the mother's heartThat will never cease to yearn,As only a mother's can,For her absent boy's return?Oh, where is my boy to-night?I cannot answer where,But I know, wherever he is,He is under our Father's care.May He guard, and guide, and blessMy boy, wherever he be,And bring him back at lengthTo bless and to comfort me.May God bless all our boysBy the camp-fire's ruddy glow,Or when in the deadly fightThey front the embattled foe;And comfort each mother's heart,As she sits in the fading light,And ponders with anxious heart—Oh, where is my boy to-night?
Just from the sentry's tramp(I must take it again at ten),I have laid my musket down,And seized instead my pen;For, pacing my lonely roundIn the chilly twilight gray,The thought, dear Mary, came,That this is St. Valentine's Day.And with the thought there cameA glimpse of the happy timeWhen a school-boy's first attemptI sent you, in borrowed rhyme,On a gilt-edged sheet, embossedWith many a quaint design,And signed, in school-boy hand,"Your loving Valentine."The years have come and gone,—Have flown, I know not where,—And the school-boy's merry faceIs grave with manhood's care;But the heart of the man still beatsAt the well-remembered name,And on this St. Valentine's DayHis choice is still the same.There was a time—ah, well!Think not that I repineWhen I dreamed this happy dayWould smile on you as mine;But I heard my country's call;I knew her need was sore.Thank God, no selfish thoughtWithheld me from the war.But when the dear old flagShall float in its ancient pride,When the twain shall be made one,And feuds no more divide,—I will lay my musket down,My martial garb resign,And turn my joyous feetToward home and Valentine.
"DEAR Charlie," breathed a soldier,"O comrade true and tried,Who in the heat of battlePressed closely to my side;I feel that I am stricken,My life is ebbing fast;I fain would have you with me,Dear Charlie, till the last."It seems so sudden, Charlie,To think to-morrow's sunWill look upon me lifeless,And I not twenty-one!I little dreamed this morning,Twould bring my last campaign;God's ways are not as our ways,And I will not complain."There's one at home, dear Charlie,Will mourn for me when dead,Whose heart—it is a mother's—Can scarce be comforted.You'll write and tell her, Charlie,With my dear love, that IFought bravely as a soldier should,And died as he should die."And you will tell her, Charlie,She must not grieve too much,Our country claims our young lives,For she has need of such.And where is he would falter,Or turn ignobly back,When Duty's voice cries 'Forward,'And Honor lights the track?"And there's another, Charlie(His voice became more low),When thoughts of HER come o'er me,It makes it hard to go.This locket in my bosom,She gave me just beforeI left my native villageFor the fearful scenes of war."Give her this message, Charlie,Sent with my dying breath,To her and to my bannerI'm 'faithful unto death.'And if, in that far countryWhich I am going to,Our earthly ties may enter,I'll there my love renew."Come nearer, closer, Charlie,My head I fain would rest,It must be for the last time,Upon your faithful breast.Dear friend, I cannot tell youHow in my heart I feelThe depth of your devotion,Your friendship strong as steel."We've watched and camped togetherIn sunshine and in rain;We've shared the toils and perilsOf more than one campaign;And when my tired feet faltered,Beneath the noontide heat,Your words sustained my courage,Gave new strength to my feet."And once,—'twas at Antietam,—Pressed hard by thronging foes,I almost sank exhaustedBeneath their cruel blows,—When you, dear friend, undaunted,With headlong courage threwYour heart into the contest,And safely brought me through."My words are weak, dear Charlie,My breath is growing scant;Your hand upon my heart there,Can you not hear me pant?Your thoughts I know will wanderSometimes to where I lie—How dark it grows! True comradeAnd faithful friend, good-by!"A moment, and he lay thereA statue, pale and calm.His youthful head recliningUpon his comrade's arm.His limbs upon the greenswardWere stretched in careless grace,And by the fitful moon was seenA smile upon his face.
* Written by request for the Philadelphia Sanitary Fair.An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,In a dismal kind of way;And all that he did, whatever befell,Was to croak the livelong day.Croak, croak, croak,When darkness filled the air,And croak, croak, croak,When the skies were bright and fair."Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,And the foeman's power is broke."But he only turned a greener hue,And answered with a croak.Croak, croak, croak,When the clouds are dark and dun,And croak, croak, croak,In the blaze of the noontide sun."Good Master Frog, the forces of rightAre driving the hosts of wrong."But he gave his head an ominous shake,And croaked out, "Nous verrons!"Croak, croak, croak,Till the heart is full of gloom,And croak, croak, croak,Till the world seems but a tomb.To poison the cup of life,By always dreading the worst.Is to make of the earth a dungeon damp,And the happiest life accursed.Croak, croak, croak,When the noontide sun rides high,And croak, croak, croak,Lest the night come by and by.Farewell to the dismal frog;Let him croak as loud as he may,He cannot blot the sun from heaven,Nor hinder the march of day,Though he croak, croak, croak,Till the heart is full of gloom,And croak, croak, croak,Till the world seems but a tomb.
KING COTTON looks from his windowTowards the westering sun,And he marks, with an anguished horror,That his race is almost run.His form is thin and shrunken;His cheek is pale and wan;And the lines of care on his furrowed browAre dread to look upon.But yesterday a monarch,In the flush of his pomp and pride,And, not content with his own broad lands,He would rule the world beside.He built him a stately palace,With gold from beyond the sea;And he laid with care the corner-stone,And he called it Slavery:He summoned an army with banners,To keep his foes at bay;And, gazing with pride on his palace walls,He said, "They will stand for aye!"But the palace walls are shrunken,And partly overthrown,And the storms of war, in their violence,Have loosened the corner-stone.Now Famine stalks through the palace halls,With her gaunt and pallid train;You can hear the cries of famished men,As they cry for bread in vain.The king can see, from his palace walls.A land by his pride betrayed;Thousands of mothers and wives bereft.Thousands of graves new-made.And he seems to see, in the lowering sky,The shape of a flaming sword;Whereon he reads, with a sinking heart,The anger of the Lord.God speed the time when the guilty kingShall be hurled from his blood-stained throne;And the palace of Wrong shall crumble to dust,With its boasted corner-stone.A temple of Freedom shall rise instead,On the desecrated site:And within its shelter alike shall standThe black man and the white.
To Egypt's king, who ruled besideThe reedy river's flow,Came God's command, "Release, O king,And let my people go."The king's proud heart grew hard apace;He marked the suppliant throng,And said, "Nay, they must here abide;The weak must serve the strong."Straightway the Lord stretched forth his hand,And every stream ran blood;The river swept towards the sea—A full ensanguined flood.The haughty king beheld the land,By plagues afflicted sore,But, as God's wonders multiplied,Hardened his heart the more;Until the angel of the LordCame on the wings of Night,And smote first-born of man and beast,In his destructive flight.Throughout all Egypt, not a houseWas spared this crowning woe.Then broke the tyrant's stubborn will;He bade the people go.They gathered up their flocks and herds,Rejoicing to be free;And, going forth, a mighty host,Encamped beside the sea.
Then Pharaoh's heart repented him;He called a mighty force,And swiftly followed on their track,With chariot and with horse.Then Israel's host were sore afraid;But God was on their side,And, lo! for them a way is cleft,The Red-sea waves divide.At God's command the restless wavesObey the prophet's rod;And, through the middle of the sea,The people marched dry-shod.But, when the spoilers, following close,Would hinder Israel's flight,The waters to their course return,The parted waves unite,And Pharaoh's host is swept away,The chariots and the horse;And not a man is left aliveOf all that mighty force.So in these days God looks from heaven,And marks his servants' woe;Hear ye his voice: "Break every yoke,And let my people go!"For them the Red-sea waves divide,The streams with crimson flow;Therefore we mourn for our first-born;—Then let the people go.They are not weak whom God befriends,He makes their cause His own;And they who fight against God's mightShall surely be o'erthrown.
"A VICTORY!—a victory!"Is flashed across the wires;Speed, speed the news from State to State,Light up the signal fires!Let all the bells from all the towersA joyous peal ring out;We've gained a glorious victory,And put the foe to rout!A mother heard the chiming bells;Her joy was mixed with pain."Pray God," she said, "my gallant boyBe not among the slain!"Alas for her! that very hourOutstretched in death he lay,The color from his fair, young faceHad scarcely passed away.His nerveless hand still grasped the sword.He never more might wield,His eyes were sealed in dreamless sleepUpon that bloody field.The chestnut curls his mother oftHad stroked in fondest pride,Neglected hung in clotted locks,With deepest crimson dyed.Ah! many a mother's heart shall ache,And bleed with anguish sore,When tidings come of him who marchedSo blithely forth to war.Oh! sad for them, the stricken downIn manhood's early dawn,And sadder yet for loving hearts.God comfort them that mourn!Yes, victory has a fearful priceOur hearts may shrink to pay,And tears will mingle with the joyThat greets a glorious day.But he who dies in freedom's cause,We cannot count him lost;A battle won for truth and rightIs worth the blood it cost!O mothers! count it something gainedThat they, for whom you mourn,Bequeath fair Freedom's heritageTo millions yet unborn;—And better than a thousand yearsOf base, ignoble breath,A patriot's fragrant memory,A hero's early death!
(SUNG AT ANNUAL DINNERS OF THE HARVARD CLUBOF New York. NEW YORK.)
HARVARD ODES.I.(Feb. 23, 1869.)Fair Harvard, dear guide of our youth's golden days;At thy name all our hearts own a thrill,We turn from life's highways, its business, its cares,We are boys in thy tutelage still.And the warm blood of youth to our veins, as of yore,Returns with impetuous flow,Reviving the scenes and the hopes that were oursIn the vanished, but sweet Long Ago.Once more through thy walks, Alma Mater, we tread,And we dream youth's fair dreams once again,We are heroes in fight for the Just and the Right,We are knights without fear, without stain;Its doors in fair prospect the world opens wide,Its prizes seem easy to win,—We are strong in our faith, we are bold in our might,And we long for the race to begin.Though dimmed are our hopes, and our visions are fled,Our dreams were but dreams, it is true;Dust-stained from the contest we gather to-night,The sweet dreams of youth to renew.Enough for to-morrow the cares it shall bring,We are boys, we are brothers, to-night;And our hearts, warm with love, Alma Mater, to thee,Shall in loyal devotion unite.
II.(Feb. 11, 1870.)As we meet in thy name, Alma Mater, to-night,All our hearts and our hopes are as one,And love for the mother that nurtured his youthBeats high in the breast of each son.The sweet chords of Memory bridge o'er the Past,The years fade away like a dream,By the banks of Cephissus, beneath the green trees,We tread thy fair walks, Academe.The heights of Hymettus that bound the near viewFill the air with an odor as sweetAs the beautiful clusters of sun-tinted grapesFrom the vineyards that lie at our feet.O realm of enchantment, O Wonderful land,Where the gods hold high converse with men,Come out from the dusk of past ages once more,And live in our fancy again.Let us drink to the Past as our glasses we lift,Let eye speak to eye, heart to heart,Let the bonds of sweet fellowship bind each to each,In the hours that remain ere we part.And thou, Alma Mater, grown fairer with age,Let us echo the blessing that fellFrom thy motherly lips, as we stood at thy side,And thou bad'st us God-speed and Farewell.
III.(Feb. 21, 1872.)Fair Harvard, the months have accomplished their roundAnd a year stands full-orbed and complete,Since last at thy summons, with dutiful hearts,Thy children sat here at thy feet.Since last in thy presence, grown youthful once more,We drank to the past and its joys,Shaking off every care that encumbered our years,And dreamed that again we were boys.To-night once again in thy presence we meetIn the freshness and flush of life's spring;We wait but thy blessing, we ask but thy smile,As our sails to the free air we fling.The winds breathe auspicious that waft us along,The sky, undisturbed, smiles serene,Hope stands at the prow, and the waters gleam brightWith sparkles of silvery sheen.And thy voice, Alma Mater, so potent and sweet,Still sounds in our ears as of yore,And thy motherly counsel we hear, wisdom-fraught,As we push our frail barks from the shore.From the foam-crested waves of the mountainous seaAs backward our glances we strain,We see the dear face of our mother benign,And bless her again and again.
IV.(Feb. 21, 1873.)There's a fountain of Fable whose magical powerTime's ravages all could repair,And replace the bowed form and the tottering step,The wrinkles and silvery hair,By the brown flowing locks and the graces of youth,Its footstep elastic and light,Could mantle the cheek with its long-vanished bloomAnd make the dull eye keen and bright.'Tis only a fable—a beautiful dream,But the fable, the dream, shall come true,As thy sons, Alma Mater, assemble to-nightThe joys of past years to renew.Our eyes shall grow bright with their old wonted light,Our spirits untrammelled by care,And the Goddess of Hope, with her fresh rainbow tints,Shall paint every prospect more fair.How sweet were the friendships we formed in thy halls!How strong were the tendrils that boundOur hearts to the mother whose provident careEncompassed her children around!Now strong in our manhood we cherish her still;And if by misfortune brought low,Our strength shall support her, our arms bear her up,And sustain her through weal and through woe.
(June 13, 1860.)* Sung at the bi-centennial celebration of the incorporationof Marlboro, Mass.
From the door of the homestead the mother looks forth,With a glance half of hope, half of fear,For the clock in the corner now points to the hourWhen the children she loves should appear.For have they not promised, whatever betide,On this their dear mother's birthday,To gather once more round the family board,Their dutiful service to pay?From the East and the West, from the North and the South,In communion and intercourse sweet,Her children have come, on this festival day,To sit, as of old, at her feet.And our mother,—God bless her benevolent face!—How her heart thrills with motherly joys,As she stands at the portal, with arms opened wide,To welcome her girls and her boys.And yet, when the first joyful greetings are o'er,When the words of her welcome are said:A shadow creeps over her motherly face,As she silently thinks of the dead,Of the children whose voices once rang through her fields,Who shared all her hopes and alarms,Till, tired with the burden and heat of the day,They have fallen asleep in her arms.They have gone from our midst, but their labors abideOn the fields where they prayerfully wrought;They scattered the seed, but the harvest is ours,By their toil and self-sacrifice bought.As we scan the fair scene that once greeted their eyes,As we tread the same paths which they trod,Let us tenderly think of our elders by birth,Who have gone to their rest, and their God.God bless the old homestead! some linger there still,In the haunts which their childhood has known,While others have wandered to places remote,And planted new homes of their own;But Time cannot weaken the ties Love creates,Nor absence, nor distance, impedeThe filial devotion which thrills all our hearts,As we bid our old mother God-speed.
This verdant field that smiles to HeavenIn Nature's bright array,From common uses set apart,We consecrate to-day."God's Acre" be it fitly called,For when, beneath the sod,We lay the dead with reverent hands,We yield them back to God.And His great love, so freely given,Shall speak in clearer tones,When, pacing through these hallowed walks,We read memorial stones.Here let the sunshine softly fall,And gently drop the rain,And Nature's countless harmoniesBlend one accordant strain;That they who seek this sacred place,In mourning solitude,In all this gracious companyMay have their faith renewed.So, lifted to serener heights,And purified from dross,Their trustful hearts shall rest on God,And profit by their loss.