Low and soft and plaintive,Now distant and now near,Is the voice of Robin Redbreast,That in the tree I hear.Sometimes 'tis but a murmur,So gentle and so sweet,It sounds like a dying zephyrThat echo doth repeat.And then in bursts of musicThat make the forests ring,Comes the swelling, happy dittyHis birdship loves to sing.And the voice is so enchanting,So perfect and so clear,All earth stands still to listen,And the clouds bend low to hear.Again he tunes his liquid noteTo winds in tree-tops sighing,Or to the sound of watersThat o'er the rocks are playing.The sprightly, sweet ventriloquistDeceives you as to distance,You sometimes think him far awayBeyond alarm's resistance,And then again, you think him nearThe place you are abiding;He's in the same place all the time,In covert he is hiding,And telling you in measured notesHis mate is yonder nesting,While in the shade of leafy treeNear by in song he's resting.Had I so sweet a voice as hisI'd carol all day long,Charm with my presence all mankind,And cheer them with my song.The woods and fields should echo farMy choicest minstrelsy,While earth and sky would both uniteTo join the revelry.
Low and soft and plaintive,Now distant and now near,Is the voice of Robin Redbreast,That in the tree I hear.
Sometimes 'tis but a murmur,So gentle and so sweet,It sounds like a dying zephyrThat echo doth repeat.
And then in bursts of musicThat make the forests ring,Comes the swelling, happy dittyHis birdship loves to sing.
And the voice is so enchanting,So perfect and so clear,All earth stands still to listen,And the clouds bend low to hear.
Again he tunes his liquid noteTo winds in tree-tops sighing,Or to the sound of watersThat o'er the rocks are playing.
The sprightly, sweet ventriloquistDeceives you as to distance,You sometimes think him far awayBeyond alarm's resistance,
And then again, you think him nearThe place you are abiding;He's in the same place all the time,In covert he is hiding,
And telling you in measured notesHis mate is yonder nesting,While in the shade of leafy treeNear by in song he's resting.
Had I so sweet a voice as hisI'd carol all day long,Charm with my presence all mankind,And cheer them with my song.
The woods and fields should echo farMy choicest minstrelsy,While earth and sky would both uniteTo join the revelry.
Of war and love some poets sing,And some of fame and glory,But few there are a tribute bringTo him whose only storyIs written on the sterile soilWith hand of honest labor,Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toilMore grand than gory sabre.My muse will sing of such as these,And claim a wreath of laurel,To crown each sturdy HerculesWhose only wish to quarrel,Is with the forest and the fieldTo make them rich and fairer,To make old mother earth to yieldHer fruits and flowers e'en rarer.Let merchants in the busy martsThink farmers are mere cattle,But they who know the farmers' heartsAnd of his earnest battleWith thorns and thistles scattered wide,Like earth's destructive Neros,Well know they are our country's pride—Our Nation's greatest heroes.The lily-fingered, pale-faced menWho live by "A Profession,"Need not despise the farmer, whenHe makes some slight digressionUpon what they call etiquette;For in his heart he's civil;Though rough his hand, his brow asweat,His heart is free from evil.He toils from early morn till night,Yet he is "Independent;"For Nature's God defends the right,And holds a crown resplendentTo place upon His honored childWhose life is heavy laden,But keeps a spirit undefiledTo enter into Eden.
Of war and love some poets sing,And some of fame and glory,But few there are a tribute bringTo him whose only storyIs written on the sterile soilWith hand of honest labor,Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toilMore grand than gory sabre.
My muse will sing of such as these,And claim a wreath of laurel,To crown each sturdy HerculesWhose only wish to quarrel,Is with the forest and the fieldTo make them rich and fairer,To make old mother earth to yieldHer fruits and flowers e'en rarer.
Let merchants in the busy martsThink farmers are mere cattle,But they who know the farmers' heartsAnd of his earnest battleWith thorns and thistles scattered wide,Like earth's destructive Neros,Well know they are our country's pride—Our Nation's greatest heroes.
The lily-fingered, pale-faced menWho live by "A Profession,"Need not despise the farmer, whenHe makes some slight digressionUpon what they call etiquette;For in his heart he's civil;Though rough his hand, his brow asweat,His heart is free from evil.
He toils from early morn till night,Yet he is "Independent;"For Nature's God defends the right,And holds a crown resplendentTo place upon His honored childWhose life is heavy laden,But keeps a spirit undefiledTo enter into Eden.
Though brown and dusty be his garbFrom wrestling with the soil,The farmer is God's nobleman,Made so, by honest toil.
Though brown and dusty be his garbFrom wrestling with the soil,The farmer is God's nobleman,Made so, by honest toil.
The dear old farm has a sacred charmThat extends to farthest bound,Every rock and tree is dear to me,And hallowed seems the ground.Its beautiful stream whose waters gleamAs they dance on to the sea,Sings sweeter song, as it moves along,Than other waters to me.No leaves are so green, as those that screenThe revered old farm-house doors,From the burning sun of torrid JuneWhen his fiercest rays he pours.Each grove and field doth a mem'ry yieldOf dear childhood's blissful hours,And in accents clear, voices I hearThat have now augmented powers.My father's care and my mother's prayerAre now ended here on earth,But as time rolls on, since they have gone,I shall understand their worth.There's a sacred charm in the dear old farm,For loved ones have trod its soil,And much I now see, appears to meAs fruit of their faithful toil.
The dear old farm has a sacred charmThat extends to farthest bound,Every rock and tree is dear to me,And hallowed seems the ground.
Its beautiful stream whose waters gleamAs they dance on to the sea,Sings sweeter song, as it moves along,Than other waters to me.
No leaves are so green, as those that screenThe revered old farm-house doors,From the burning sun of torrid JuneWhen his fiercest rays he pours.
Each grove and field doth a mem'ry yieldOf dear childhood's blissful hours,And in accents clear, voices I hearThat have now augmented powers.
My father's care and my mother's prayerAre now ended here on earth,But as time rolls on, since they have gone,I shall understand their worth.
There's a sacred charm in the dear old farm,For loved ones have trod its soil,And much I now see, appears to meAs fruit of their faithful toil.
On velvet green of grassy floor,'Neath maple at my father's doorMy couch at eve has been;There gazing on the tranquil sky,With all its astral brilliancy,My spirit sang within.Then far away beyond the blue,On Fancy's wings my vision flewAnd scanned the realms of space;Then like a dove far from her nest,Returned to find a perfect restWithin its dwelling place.
On velvet green of grassy floor,'Neath maple at my father's doorMy couch at eve has been;There gazing on the tranquil sky,With all its astral brilliancy,My spirit sang within.
Then far away beyond the blue,On Fancy's wings my vision flewAnd scanned the realms of space;Then like a dove far from her nest,Returned to find a perfect restWithin its dwelling place.
[See Note on "Fidelity."]
I've been charmed by many a picture,That has brought its master renown;I have looked on beautiful valleysFrom the mountain's lofty crown;I have gazed on the sky at evening,When the heavens were all aglow,But they fail to charm me so fullyAs this scene in the waters below.Fair Trinity lay in her beauty,Not a ripple was on her breast,Her borders of hemlocks and mossesWith beautiful flowers were dressed;Clear as the air on her bosomWere her waters so pure and deep,They seemed like the magical mirrorThat Flora and Nereus keep.Where the rocks and trees bend overThe marge of her western shore,The boat glided slowly onwardWithout the aid of the oar;When glancing the eye at the shadowsReflected from shore near at hand,There appeared a bright panorama,Most charming—exquisitely grand.Down, down, far down in the waters,And touching the brink of the lake,Was a picture no master painterWith pencil or brush could make;Gray rocks, green trees, and bright flowers,Inverted and magnified, too,Seemed perfect in all but proportionAnd their upturned chimerical view.It seemed like a fairy enchantmentInviting to feasts down below,Where grottoes and caverns of beautyIllumine the flowers that growTo charm the nymphs of the water,And beguile all the sylvan elvesTo the table of old Oceanus,Where guests ever help themselves.Some spirit seemed calling me sweetly,Inviting me then to partakeOf the fanciful pleasures reflectedFar down in the clear, placid lake.O, beautiful scene of reflection!So perfect, so grand, and so pure,In my mind that mirror enchantmentTo the end of my days must endure.
I've been charmed by many a picture,That has brought its master renown;I have looked on beautiful valleysFrom the mountain's lofty crown;I have gazed on the sky at evening,When the heavens were all aglow,But they fail to charm me so fullyAs this scene in the waters below.
Fair Trinity lay in her beauty,Not a ripple was on her breast,Her borders of hemlocks and mossesWith beautiful flowers were dressed;Clear as the air on her bosomWere her waters so pure and deep,They seemed like the magical mirrorThat Flora and Nereus keep.
Where the rocks and trees bend overThe marge of her western shore,The boat glided slowly onwardWithout the aid of the oar;When glancing the eye at the shadowsReflected from shore near at hand,There appeared a bright panorama,Most charming—exquisitely grand.
Down, down, far down in the waters,And touching the brink of the lake,Was a picture no master painterWith pencil or brush could make;Gray rocks, green trees, and bright flowers,Inverted and magnified, too,Seemed perfect in all but proportionAnd their upturned chimerical view.
It seemed like a fairy enchantmentInviting to feasts down below,Where grottoes and caverns of beautyIllumine the flowers that growTo charm the nymphs of the water,And beguile all the sylvan elvesTo the table of old Oceanus,Where guests ever help themselves.
Some spirit seemed calling me sweetly,Inviting me then to partakeOf the fanciful pleasures reflectedFar down in the clear, placid lake.O, beautiful scene of reflection!So perfect, so grand, and so pure,In my mind that mirror enchantmentTo the end of my days must endure.
The flowers all wash their faces fairWith the dews of the smiling morn,Then turn to greet the god of the airAs his light in the east is born.They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring westAnd a censer place in his hand,Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best,To waft o'er the festive land.The flower of th' heart may lave in deedsThat refresh the worthy poor,And th' soul's perfume is that which feedsThe hungry, weak, and sore.
The flowers all wash their faces fairWith the dews of the smiling morn,Then turn to greet the god of the airAs his light in the east is born.
They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring westAnd a censer place in his hand,Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best,To waft o'er the festive land.
The flower of th' heart may lave in deedsThat refresh the worthy poor,And th' soul's perfume is that which feedsThe hungry, weak, and sore.
There's food for thought in every leafThat spring unfolds to pleasure's eye;There's wisdom in the falling dropThat had its birth in yonder sky.The breeze that fans the fevered brow,Or gives new vigor to frail man,Is but the breath of the DivineSent to fulfill benignant plan.
There's food for thought in every leafThat spring unfolds to pleasure's eye;There's wisdom in the falling dropThat had its birth in yonder sky.The breeze that fans the fevered brow,Or gives new vigor to frail man,Is but the breath of the DivineSent to fulfill benignant plan.
When Aurora springs from her couch of cloudsAnd opens the gate of a perfect day,And her brother Sol in his daily roundsAdvances his steeds toward Polaris' ray,Then the vernal bloom and the warbling birdThat follow his track as he speeds along,Send their fragrance pure on the morning air,And fill leafy groves with ecstatic song.Oceanus lends invisible bowls,Well filled with vapors that rise from his breast,Eurus is summoned to waft them afarAnd scatter abroad in the distant west,Where Sol with his brush and an artist's touch,Paints on the sky all the glories of heaven,In colors more bright and blendings more true,Than ever on canvas by mortal was given.One sunset scene in Hesperian sky,When the courts of heaven are all ablazeWith the glorious tints and pageantryThat to mortal mind so clearly portraysThe mighty power of omnipotent hand,And the tender touch of a boundless love,Is an omen true—infallible proofOf a Deity who presides above.
When Aurora springs from her couch of cloudsAnd opens the gate of a perfect day,And her brother Sol in his daily roundsAdvances his steeds toward Polaris' ray,Then the vernal bloom and the warbling birdThat follow his track as he speeds along,Send their fragrance pure on the morning air,And fill leafy groves with ecstatic song.
Oceanus lends invisible bowls,Well filled with vapors that rise from his breast,Eurus is summoned to waft them afarAnd scatter abroad in the distant west,Where Sol with his brush and an artist's touch,Paints on the sky all the glories of heaven,In colors more bright and blendings more true,Than ever on canvas by mortal was given.
One sunset scene in Hesperian sky,When the courts of heaven are all ablazeWith the glorious tints and pageantryThat to mortal mind so clearly portraysThe mighty power of omnipotent hand,And the tender touch of a boundless love,Is an omen true—infallible proofOf a Deity who presides above.
When musical chords are tensionedTo sentiments they should express,And touched by a master artistWhose deft hand gives the proper stress,The effect is so ecstaticWhen vibrations fall on the ear,The soul stands in silent rapture,And our being expands to hear.At skillful touch of the masterA creation of joy is given,That lends to the spirit pinionsTo waft it away toward heaven,While it sings to the same measureAnd becomes a part of the song,Enraptured by the magic powerWhich carries it gently along.O the magic power of tensionWhen a master hand has control!It wins the heart's approbationAnd augments the receptive soul;'Tis a rapture born in heavenTo entrance our expectant ears,'Tis angelic diapasonSuch as harmonized once the spheres.We each have an organ, tensionedWith a thousand strings and their keys,All made by a Master builderWho permits us ourselves to please;Its wonderful combinationsFar surpass all the works of art,'Tis the master-piece of creation—The versatile, strange, human heart.We have sole choice of the musicThat shall sound on the tensioned strings;We may choose if sad or joyousShall be the final note it sings;Though fate may fling fiercest chaos,Its Maker reserved to us powersThat we need not ever surrender,For the strength to possess is ours.Let my tongue sing songs of raptureAnd my heart-strings sweetly respond,Till the notes shall pass earth's borderAnd reach the bright portals beyond;And when in the great hereafterThe tension shall be much increased,My joys will be there augmentedTo know that earth's songs have not ceased.
When musical chords are tensionedTo sentiments they should express,And touched by a master artistWhose deft hand gives the proper stress,The effect is so ecstaticWhen vibrations fall on the ear,The soul stands in silent rapture,And our being expands to hear.
At skillful touch of the masterA creation of joy is given,That lends to the spirit pinionsTo waft it away toward heaven,While it sings to the same measureAnd becomes a part of the song,Enraptured by the magic powerWhich carries it gently along.
O the magic power of tensionWhen a master hand has control!It wins the heart's approbationAnd augments the receptive soul;'Tis a rapture born in heavenTo entrance our expectant ears,'Tis angelic diapasonSuch as harmonized once the spheres.
We each have an organ, tensionedWith a thousand strings and their keys,All made by a Master builderWho permits us ourselves to please;Its wonderful combinationsFar surpass all the works of art,'Tis the master-piece of creation—The versatile, strange, human heart.
We have sole choice of the musicThat shall sound on the tensioned strings;We may choose if sad or joyousShall be the final note it sings;Though fate may fling fiercest chaos,Its Maker reserved to us powersThat we need not ever surrender,For the strength to possess is ours.
Let my tongue sing songs of raptureAnd my heart-strings sweetly respond,Till the notes shall pass earth's borderAnd reach the bright portals beyond;And when in the great hereafterThe tension shall be much increased,My joys will be there augmentedTo know that earth's songs have not ceased.
I often long for some quiet nookAway from the noise and strifeWhich come from the steady daily roundThat absorbs my busy life;Away in some shadowy forestWhose silence is supreme,Save the song of feathered minstrelAnd the murmur of a stream;Far away among the dark shadowsThat form Fauna's trysting-bowers,—But the time of this total seclusionShould ne'er exceed six hours.
I often long for some quiet nookAway from the noise and strifeWhich come from the steady daily roundThat absorbs my busy life;Away in some shadowy forestWhose silence is supreme,Save the song of feathered minstrelAnd the murmur of a stream;Far away among the dark shadowsThat form Fauna's trysting-bowers,—But the time of this total seclusionShould ne'er exceed six hours.
When wearisome task is finishedAnd flesh with fatigue is oppressed,When muscles are tired and languidAnd sinews are sorely distressed,No balm can renew their vigorLike that boon from heaven called rest.We know not its composition,Nor can we expound all its laws,We grant the effect is pleasantTho' we cannot explain the cause;We therefore accept the blessingAnd bid curiosity pause.Foremost in its rank of agentsIs a heavenly maid called Sleep,Who stands in unbroken silence,And ever her watch will keepO'er mortals whose labors and trialsSeem heavy, oppressive, and deep.Sometimes when sorrows are deepestThis maiden refuses relief;She's no balm for the broken-hearted,No cure for a head bowed with grief,No soothing touch for the anguishThat robs like a heartless thief.She flies from deep woe and sorrowAnd recedes from the blinding tear;Yet hastes to fatigue and trialsAnd offers to them smiles of cheerSuch as turn to joy and gladness,Murky doubt and foreboding fear.When death shall release the spiritFrom its prison-house of vile clay,It will speed to an elysianOf a cloudless, unending day,Where with others of its kindred,It will find a rest for aye.
When wearisome task is finishedAnd flesh with fatigue is oppressed,When muscles are tired and languidAnd sinews are sorely distressed,No balm can renew their vigorLike that boon from heaven called rest.
We know not its composition,Nor can we expound all its laws,We grant the effect is pleasantTho' we cannot explain the cause;We therefore accept the blessingAnd bid curiosity pause.
Foremost in its rank of agentsIs a heavenly maid called Sleep,Who stands in unbroken silence,And ever her watch will keepO'er mortals whose labors and trialsSeem heavy, oppressive, and deep.
Sometimes when sorrows are deepestThis maiden refuses relief;She's no balm for the broken-hearted,No cure for a head bowed with grief,No soothing touch for the anguishThat robs like a heartless thief.
She flies from deep woe and sorrowAnd recedes from the blinding tear;Yet hastes to fatigue and trialsAnd offers to them smiles of cheerSuch as turn to joy and gladness,Murky doubt and foreboding fear.
When death shall release the spiritFrom its prison-house of vile clay,It will speed to an elysianOf a cloudless, unending day,Where with others of its kindred,It will find a rest for aye.
A pleasant pastime is my penWell filled with murky ink,When in my solitary denI sit for hours to think,And trace my thoughts in liquid flowUpon some virgin page,That in the future it may showWhat thoughts my mind engage.
A pleasant pastime is my penWell filled with murky ink,When in my solitary denI sit for hours to think,And trace my thoughts in liquid flowUpon some virgin page,That in the future it may showWhat thoughts my mind engage.
Success knows no diminution,For failure hovers so near,That with trace of slight dilution,Success must cease to appear.We look in vain for a substituteTo take the place of success;A proxy saps its vital cords,It dies of paralysis.Nothing can take the place of success,Its measure must be complete,If slightest imperfection is foundIt suffers a deadly defeat.The marge that divides sturdy successFrom failure grim and gaunt,Is invisible space, but separatesAbundance from woe and want.Like pack of wolves on army's trail,Fell failure lives on distress,Devouring with greed th' foul refuseThat falls from th' hands of success.Success and failure closely abide—Success has a palace fine,While failure dwells in a dreary hut,Like a herding place for swine.Success may not always achieveThe object it has in view,But lives while its motives and actsAre earnest, noble, and true.True failure can only be foundIn a being devoid of heart,Whose efforts and deeds are all dead,Or act but a sluggard's part.Success has a heart that can sing,A hand and a spirit to try,A word that is fraught with good cheer,A soul that illumines the eye.Failure is cheerless, sullen, and glum,His hand hanging idly by,His voice is an echo of woe,His face distorted, awry.
Success knows no diminution,For failure hovers so near,That with trace of slight dilution,Success must cease to appear.
We look in vain for a substituteTo take the place of success;A proxy saps its vital cords,It dies of paralysis.
Nothing can take the place of success,Its measure must be complete,If slightest imperfection is foundIt suffers a deadly defeat.
The marge that divides sturdy successFrom failure grim and gaunt,Is invisible space, but separatesAbundance from woe and want.
Like pack of wolves on army's trail,Fell failure lives on distress,Devouring with greed th' foul refuseThat falls from th' hands of success.
Success and failure closely abide—Success has a palace fine,While failure dwells in a dreary hut,Like a herding place for swine.
Success may not always achieveThe object it has in view,But lives while its motives and actsAre earnest, noble, and true.
True failure can only be foundIn a being devoid of heart,Whose efforts and deeds are all dead,Or act but a sluggard's part.
Success has a heart that can sing,A hand and a spirit to try,A word that is fraught with good cheer,A soul that illumines the eye.
Failure is cheerless, sullen, and glum,His hand hanging idly by,His voice is an echo of woe,His face distorted, awry.
This world was made of fragmentsEach separate from the other,Yet in such close relationAs to indicate a brother.Each atom of the universeHas in itself attraction,That finds response so much alliedTo voluntary action,That one might quickly recognizeA power, supreme, benign,That emanates from master handWith forces so divine,That every touch which nature givesTo matter or to mind,Must indicate creative powerSuperior to mankind.What scientist can ever tellThe mainspring of all action,If all his reasons fail so proveMolecular attraction?It has its source from out the space,Beyond the astral heaven;It had a purpose to perform,Or it had not been given.We may not know its secret lawsOr understand its source,But faith has taught us to be wiseAnd recognize its force.Of all the teeming millions nowUpon this mundane sphere,Not one can give a reasonFor his living presence here.'Tis strange, and yet we know 'tis true,We constantly are dying,All things are old, nothing is new,And life with death is vying.We know not when this all will cease,We cannot understandWhy matter never may increase,Or seas become dry land.Enough we know to serve the endFor which we were designed,God never yet was known to sendThe blind to lead the blind.If we but act an honest part,And use the powers given,When from this earth we shall depart,We may be wise in heaven.
This world was made of fragmentsEach separate from the other,Yet in such close relationAs to indicate a brother.
Each atom of the universeHas in itself attraction,That finds response so much alliedTo voluntary action,
That one might quickly recognizeA power, supreme, benign,That emanates from master handWith forces so divine,
That every touch which nature givesTo matter or to mind,Must indicate creative powerSuperior to mankind.
What scientist can ever tellThe mainspring of all action,If all his reasons fail so proveMolecular attraction?
It has its source from out the space,Beyond the astral heaven;It had a purpose to perform,Or it had not been given.
We may not know its secret lawsOr understand its source,But faith has taught us to be wiseAnd recognize its force.
Of all the teeming millions nowUpon this mundane sphere,Not one can give a reasonFor his living presence here.
'Tis strange, and yet we know 'tis true,We constantly are dying,All things are old, nothing is new,And life with death is vying.
We know not when this all will cease,We cannot understandWhy matter never may increase,Or seas become dry land.
Enough we know to serve the endFor which we were designed,God never yet was known to sendThe blind to lead the blind.
If we but act an honest part,And use the powers given,When from this earth we shall depart,We may be wise in heaven.
Adown the vistas of the pastI cast my memory's eye,And see bright scenes receding fast,—Some hopes in ruins lie;Yet still there shines a beacon lightWhose ray on me descends,And shows in its effulgencyA circle of true friends.The magic charm this circle yieldsIs richer far to me,Than cattle in a thousand fieldsOr gems from the deep sea;It whispers softly in my earsAnd cheers me on my way,Gives faith for doubt and murky fears,And comfort for dismay.
Adown the vistas of the pastI cast my memory's eye,And see bright scenes receding fast,—Some hopes in ruins lie;Yet still there shines a beacon lightWhose ray on me descends,And shows in its effulgencyA circle of true friends.
The magic charm this circle yieldsIs richer far to me,Than cattle in a thousand fieldsOr gems from the deep sea;It whispers softly in my earsAnd cheers me on my way,Gives faith for doubt and murky fears,And comfort for dismay.
Earthly scenes are worth preserving,Bitter though they sometimes be;Who would wish to sink in LetheAll the fruits of Memory?None could dare offend his MakerBy a wish so rash and vain;For by this kind boon from HeavenLife is all lived o'er again.In the silent hour of twilight,Thoughts of by-gone days will come,Stealing o'er our better feelings,Bringing back our early home;All the soothing words of friendshipSpoken by a tongue now still,Touch the fountains near our heart-strings,And our eyes with moisture fill.Tender, oh, how sweetly tender,Are the musings of an hour,When the mellowing scenes around usGive to Memory magic power;Thought recalls those scenes long parted,Life epitomized appears,Moments then reflect a lifetimeReaching back through many years.Oh, how blessed are those moments!Present scenes can never fireSuch a rapture in our bosomAs fond Memory can inspire;Naught on earth can e'er be spokenTo attract the living ear,Like the words of the departedUttered when among us here.Time and Death have made them sacred,Memory calls them oft to mind,And her choicest, dearest treasures,She for them has oft entwined;This is but a simple homage,Richly paying him who kneels;He who's prompted by such feelings,For his fellow being feels.Dark must be that soul enshrouded,Which Oblivion would preferTo the soothing power of MemoryAnd the influence shed by her:Life itself is not worth havingIf deprived of such a bliss,Earth has not another treasureThat we may compare with this.
Earthly scenes are worth preserving,Bitter though they sometimes be;Who would wish to sink in LetheAll the fruits of Memory?None could dare offend his MakerBy a wish so rash and vain;For by this kind boon from HeavenLife is all lived o'er again.
In the silent hour of twilight,Thoughts of by-gone days will come,Stealing o'er our better feelings,Bringing back our early home;All the soothing words of friendshipSpoken by a tongue now still,Touch the fountains near our heart-strings,And our eyes with moisture fill.
Tender, oh, how sweetly tender,Are the musings of an hour,When the mellowing scenes around usGive to Memory magic power;Thought recalls those scenes long parted,Life epitomized appears,Moments then reflect a lifetimeReaching back through many years.
Oh, how blessed are those moments!Present scenes can never fireSuch a rapture in our bosomAs fond Memory can inspire;Naught on earth can e'er be spokenTo attract the living ear,Like the words of the departedUttered when among us here.
Time and Death have made them sacred,Memory calls them oft to mind,And her choicest, dearest treasures,She for them has oft entwined;This is but a simple homage,Richly paying him who kneels;He who's prompted by such feelings,For his fellow being feels.
Dark must be that soul enshrouded,Which Oblivion would preferTo the soothing power of MemoryAnd the influence shed by her:Life itself is not worth havingIf deprived of such a bliss,Earth has not another treasureThat we may compare with this.
Let quiet people talk of peace—Contentment of the mind,But he who lives at perfect easeCan never bless mankind.If each no higher end should seekThan that which now he fills,But be content, subdued, and meek,'Twould bring a thousand ills.Advancement then would have an end.Progression then would cease,Invention have no earnest friend,And science no increase.But Discontent, though called a fiend,Is progress in disguise,'Tisthisby which our end's attained,'Tisthisby which we rise.The pupil may surpass the sageIf such his aim shall be,May fathom truths for many an ageWere wrapped mystery.The genius may invent some planTo ease the laborer's toil,Or add facility for manTo cultivate the soil.Contentment never did aspireTo elevate mankind,It never raised the standard higherOf science or of mind.'Tis Discontent that gains the prizeIn every useful art;Although it brings us tearful eyesAnd restlessness of heart;But then it has a sweet reward—Progression is the fruit,But some this sweetness have abhorredFor others have the boot.For he who blesses most mankind,Himself is seldom blessed,And he whose deeds should be enshrinedWill seldom be caressed.Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled,Our lives in quiet spent;For 'tis a truth that all the worldStill thrives on Discontent.
Let quiet people talk of peace—Contentment of the mind,But he who lives at perfect easeCan never bless mankind.
If each no higher end should seekThan that which now he fills,But be content, subdued, and meek,'Twould bring a thousand ills.
Advancement then would have an end.Progression then would cease,Invention have no earnest friend,And science no increase.
But Discontent, though called a fiend,Is progress in disguise,'Tisthisby which our end's attained,'Tisthisby which we rise.
The pupil may surpass the sageIf such his aim shall be,May fathom truths for many an ageWere wrapped mystery.
The genius may invent some planTo ease the laborer's toil,Or add facility for manTo cultivate the soil.
Contentment never did aspireTo elevate mankind,It never raised the standard higherOf science or of mind.
'Tis Discontent that gains the prizeIn every useful art;Although it brings us tearful eyesAnd restlessness of heart;
But then it has a sweet reward—Progression is the fruit,But some this sweetness have abhorredFor others have the boot.
For he who blesses most mankind,Himself is seldom blessed,And he whose deeds should be enshrinedWill seldom be caressed.
Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled,Our lives in quiet spent;For 'tis a truth that all the worldStill thrives on Discontent.
"The purification of politics is an iridescent dream."U. S. Senator,John J. Ingalls, Kansas.
"Purification of politicsIs an iridescent dream,"Is the Ingalls way of saying thatCorruption's power's supreme.Have the people lost their honesty,Has the Nation sunk so low,That partisan strife can blind our eyesTill we know not friend from foe?If such be true, this fair land of oursMust fail to mature the HopeThat blossomed fair on Liberty's tree,But in impotence must grope.Beautiful land! God's own favored land!Thy sons must united be,Statesmen should now hold the public helm,Throw factions into the sea,Teach politicians with all their schemes,The people yet are supreme;That Augean stables—politics—May be cleansed by ballot's streams.
"Purification of politicsIs an iridescent dream,"Is the Ingalls way of saying thatCorruption's power's supreme.
Have the people lost their honesty,Has the Nation sunk so low,That partisan strife can blind our eyesTill we know not friend from foe?
If such be true, this fair land of oursMust fail to mature the HopeThat blossomed fair on Liberty's tree,But in impotence must grope.
Beautiful land! God's own favored land!Thy sons must united be,Statesmen should now hold the public helm,Throw factions into the sea,
Teach politicians with all their schemes,The people yet are supreme;That Augean stables—politics—May be cleansed by ballot's streams.
Softly the tints of expiring dayTinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven,Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow rayTo escort the shadows of even.All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn,Yet his splendor has left to sightA trail of enchantment to linger till dawn,To charm the still hours of the night.Scenes of such cloud-land often revealA grandeur that augments the soul;Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal,No secretsinscribedon its scroll.Through the earth for an age we may roam,And through space our vision may fly,Yet no pleasure is like that at homeWhen we gaze on a God-painted sky.When we think of the forces displayedTo prepare for a cloud-scene at even,Of the elements deftly arrayedThat a gorgeous effect may be given,Of the mists and the winds and the light,Of the blendings that art cannot teach,Of the mysteries hidden from sightThat our knowledge would gladly reach,Of the order, the purpose, design,In the pictures that hang in the sky,We know that the hand is divineThat arranged all their brilliancy,Then our faith lifts the curtain that hidesThe Spirit that ordered the plan,And assures us He ever abidesTo encourage and elevate man.At sunset my spirit shall singOf the beauties the elements yield,Let my heart then its off'ring bringTo the Artist of sky and of field.When my soul from its dwelling of clay,Shall escape to that unknown sphere,May it be at the close of the day,When the glories of sunset appear.Soothingly, sweetly comes unto meThe thought that my soul may rest,In a land whose glory shall beLike cloud-scenes that glow in the west.
Softly the tints of expiring dayTinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven,Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow rayTo escort the shadows of even.
All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn,Yet his splendor has left to sightA trail of enchantment to linger till dawn,To charm the still hours of the night.
Scenes of such cloud-land often revealA grandeur that augments the soul;Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal,No secretsinscribedon its scroll.
Through the earth for an age we may roam,And through space our vision may fly,Yet no pleasure is like that at homeWhen we gaze on a God-painted sky.
When we think of the forces displayedTo prepare for a cloud-scene at even,Of the elements deftly arrayedThat a gorgeous effect may be given,
Of the mists and the winds and the light,Of the blendings that art cannot teach,Of the mysteries hidden from sightThat our knowledge would gladly reach,
Of the order, the purpose, design,In the pictures that hang in the sky,We know that the hand is divineThat arranged all their brilliancy,
Then our faith lifts the curtain that hidesThe Spirit that ordered the plan,And assures us He ever abidesTo encourage and elevate man.
At sunset my spirit shall singOf the beauties the elements yield,Let my heart then its off'ring bringTo the Artist of sky and of field.
When my soul from its dwelling of clay,Shall escape to that unknown sphere,May it be at the close of the day,When the glories of sunset appear.
Soothingly, sweetly comes unto meThe thought that my soul may rest,In a land whose glory shall beLike cloud-scenes that glow in the west.
Who lives for self alone should bePlaced in some lonely, hollow tree,And left to toad and bat and owl—To creatures man considers foul—Where he shall be perpetual preyFor frightful ogres night and day.A narrow soul that lives for self,Should stand on some old musty shelf,Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng,And listen only to the songOf filing saw and creaky mill,And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.Who lives for self is not afraidOf meanest thing God ever made,For he himself is that same thing;Though peasant, plebian, or king,He thwarts the purpose of God's plan,He lacks the impulse of a man.No soul enwrapped within itself,Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf,Can serve its Maker or mankindAs nobly as was erst designedBy the Great Architect above,Whose being is Unselfish Love.
Who lives for self alone should bePlaced in some lonely, hollow tree,And left to toad and bat and owl—To creatures man considers foul—Where he shall be perpetual preyFor frightful ogres night and day.
A narrow soul that lives for self,Should stand on some old musty shelf,Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng,And listen only to the songOf filing saw and creaky mill,And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.
Who lives for self is not afraidOf meanest thing God ever made,For he himself is that same thing;Though peasant, plebian, or king,He thwarts the purpose of God's plan,He lacks the impulse of a man.
No soul enwrapped within itself,Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf,Can serve its Maker or mankindAs nobly as was erst designedBy the Great Architect above,Whose being is Unselfish Love.
I sit when the shadows are stealingThe light of departing day,And think of the scenes and pleasuresI enjoyed in my childhood's play.I can picture them all so plainly,They seemed not a day gone by,I recall the fields and garden,The lake and the clear blue sky.I can see the bright water flowingAt the foot of the sloping hill,The dam that impeded its progress,The toy-wheel of water-mill.I can trace every line and featureOf trees and the shadows they cast,The lanes, the rocks, and orchards,That on journey to school were past.I can close my eyes for an instantAnd draw a scene to my mind,Thatseemslike a photo-engraving,As true, as complete, as defined.Time's flight has not dim'd or shadedOne outline the scenes gave then,Though the years that have intervened,Are nearly two score and ten.There's a central, attractive figure,With heart unselfish and warm,That always appears in the picture—'Tis my mother's benignant form.I can see her in all the beautyAnd glow of a mother's pride,As she patiently watched and laboredFor her children at her side.How sweet to my soul is the powerTo so clearly these scenes portray;I pray that to life's latest hourThis bliss be not taken away.
I sit when the shadows are stealingThe light of departing day,And think of the scenes and pleasuresI enjoyed in my childhood's play.
I can picture them all so plainly,They seemed not a day gone by,I recall the fields and garden,The lake and the clear blue sky.
I can see the bright water flowingAt the foot of the sloping hill,The dam that impeded its progress,The toy-wheel of water-mill.
I can trace every line and featureOf trees and the shadows they cast,The lanes, the rocks, and orchards,That on journey to school were past.
I can close my eyes for an instantAnd draw a scene to my mind,Thatseemslike a photo-engraving,As true, as complete, as defined.
Time's flight has not dim'd or shadedOne outline the scenes gave then,Though the years that have intervened,Are nearly two score and ten.
There's a central, attractive figure,With heart unselfish and warm,That always appears in the picture—'Tis my mother's benignant form.
I can see her in all the beautyAnd glow of a mother's pride,As she patiently watched and laboredFor her children at her side.
How sweet to my soul is the powerTo so clearly these scenes portray;I pray that to life's latest hourThis bliss be not taken away.
"And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help meet for him."—Gen. 2, 18.