Jean Pierre Brissot, the famous leader of the Girondist party in the French Revolution, when a young man travelled extensively in the United States. He visited the valley of the Merrimac, and speaks in terms of admiration of the view from Moulton's hill opposite Amesbury. The "Laurel Party" so called, as composed of ladies and gentlemen in the lower valley of the Merrimac, and invited friends and guests in other sections of the country. Its thoroughly enjoyable annual festivals were held in the early summer on the pine-shaded, laurel-blossomed slopes of the Newbury side of the river opposite Pleasant Valley in Amesbury. The several poems called out by these gatherings are here printed in sequence.
Once more on yonder laurelled heightThe summer flowers have budded;Once more with summer's golden lightThe vales of home are flooded;And once more, by the grace of HimOf every good the Giver,We sing upon its wooded rimThe praises of our river,Its pines above, its waves below,The west-wind down it blowing,As fair as when the young BrissotBeheld it seaward flowing,—And bore its memory o'er the deep,To soothe a martyr's sadness,And fresco, hi his troubled sleep,His prison-walls with gladness.We know the world is rich with streamsRenowned in song and story,Whose music murmurs through our dreamsOf human love and gloryWe know that Arno's banks are fair,And Rhine has castled shadows,And, poet-tuned, the Doon and AyrGo singing down their meadows.But while, unpictured and unsungBy painter or by poet,Our river waits the tuneful tongueAnd cunning hand to show it,—We only know the fond skies leanAbove it, warm with blessing,And the sweet soul of our UndineAwakes to our caressing.No fickle sun-god holds the flocksThat graze its shores in keeping;No icy kiss of Dian mocksThe youth beside it sleepingOur Christian river loveth mostThe beautiful and human;The heathen streams of Naiads boast,But ours of man and woman.The miner in his cabin hearsThe ripple we are hearing;It whispers soft to homesick earsAround the settler's clearingIn Sacramento's vales of corn,Or Santee's bloom of cotton,Our river by its valley-bornWas never yet forgotten.The drum rolls loud, the bugle fillsThe summer air with clangor;The war-storm shakes the solid hillsBeneath its tread of anger;Young eyes that last year smiled in oursNow point the rifle's barrel,And hands then stained with fruits and flowersBear redder stains of quarrel.But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,And rivers still keep flowing,The dear God still his rain and sunOn good and ill bestowing.His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!"His flowers are prophesyingThat all we dread of change or fateHis live is underlying.And thou, O Mountain-born!—no moreWe ask the wise AllotterThan for the firmness of thy shore,The calmness of thy water,The cheerful lights that overlay,Thy rugged slopes with beauty,To match our spirits to our dayAnd make a joy of duty.1861.
The roll of drums and the bugle's wailingVex the air of our vales-no more;The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning,The share is the sword the soldier wore!Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,Under thy banks of laurel bloom;Softly and sweet, as the hour beseemeth,Sing us the songs of peace and home.Let all the tenderer voices of natureTemper the triumph and chasten mirth,Full of the infinite love and pityFor fallen martyr and darkened hearth.But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes,And the oil of joy for mourning long,Let thy hills give thanks, and all thy watersBreak into jubilant waves of song!Bring us the airs of hills and forests,The sweet aroma of birch and pine,Give us a waft of the north-wind ladenWith sweethrier odors and breath of kine!Bring us the purple of mountain sunsets,Shadows of clouds that rake the hills,The green repose of thy Plymouth meadows,The gleam and ripple of Campton rills.Lead us away in shadow and sunshine,Slaves of fancy, through all thy miles,The winding ways of Pemigewasset,And Winnipesaukee's hundred isles.Shatter in sunshine over thy ledges,Laugh in thy plunges from fall to fall;Play with thy fringes of elms, and darkenUnder the shade of the mountain wall.The cradle-song of thy hillside fountainsHere in thy glory and strength repeat;Give us a taste of thy upland music,Show us the dance of thy silver feet.Into thy dutiful life of usesPour the music and weave the flowers;With the song of birds and bloom of meadowsLighten and gladden thy heart and ours.Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.Here, in the calm of thy seaward, valley,Mirth and labor shall hold their truce;Dance of water and mill of grinding,Both are beauty and both are use.Type of the Northland's strength and glory,Pride and hope of our home and race,—Freedom lending to rugged laborTints of beauty and lines of grace.Once again, O beautiful river,Hear our greetings and take our thanks;Hither we come, as Eastern pilgrimsThrong to the Jordan's sacred banks.For though by the Master's feet untrodden,Though never His word has stilled thy waves,Well for us may thy shores be holy,With Christian altars and saintly graves.And well may we own thy hint and tokenOf fairer valleys and streams than these,Where the rivers of God are full of water,And full of sap are His healing trees!
FROM these wild rocks I look to-dayO'er leagues of dancing waves, and seeThe far, low coast-line stretch awayTo where our river meets the sea.The light wind blowing off the landIs burdened with old voices; throughShut eyes I see how lip and handThe greeting of old days renew.O friends whose hearts still keep their prime,Whose bright example warms and cheers,Ye teach us how to smile at Time,And set to music all his years!I thank you for sweet summer days,For pleasant memories lingering long,For joyful meetings, fond delays,And ties of friendship woven strong.As for the last time, side by side,You tread the paths familiar grown,I reach across the severing tide,And blend my farewells with your own.Make room, O river of our home!For other feet in place of ours,And in the summers yet to come,Make glad another Feast of Flowers!Hold in thy mirror, calm and deep,The pleasant pictures thou hast seen;Forget thy lovers not, but keepOur memory like thy laurels green.ISLES of SHOALS, 7th mo., 1870.
O dwellers in the stately towns,What come ye out to see?This common earth, this common sky,This water flowing free?As gayly as these kalmia flowersYour door-yard blossoms spring;As sweetly as these wild-wood birdsYour caged minstrels sing.You find but common bloom and green,The rippling river's rune,The beauty which is everywhereBeneath the skies of June;The Hawkswood oaks, the storm-torn plumesOf old pine-forest kings,Beneath whose century-woven shadeDeer Island's mistress sings.And here are pictured Artichoke,And Curson's bowery mill;And Pleasant Valley smiles betweenThe river and the hill.You know full well these banks of bloom,The upland's wavy line,And how the sunshine tips with fireThe needles of the pine.Yet, like some old remembered psalm,Or sweet, familiar face,Not less because of commonnessYou love the day and place.And not in vain in this soft airShall hard-strung nerves relax,Not all in vain the o'erworn brainForego its daily tax.The lust of power, the greed of gainHave all the year their own;The haunting demons well may letOur one bright day alone.Unheeded let the newsboy call,Aside the ledger layThe world will keep its treadmill stepThough we fall out to-day.The truants of life's weary school,Without excuse from thriftWe change for once the gains of toilFor God's unpurchased gift.From ceiled rooms, from silent books,From crowded car and town,Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap,We lay our tired heads down.Cool, summer wind, our heated brows;Blue river, through the greenOf clustering pines, refresh the eyesWhich all too much have seen.For us these pleasant woodland waysAre thronged with memories old,Have felt the grasp of friendly handsAnd heard love's story told.A sacred presence overbroodsThe earth whereon we meet;These winding forest-paths are trodBy more than mortal feet.Old friends called from us by the voiceWhich they alone could hear,From mystery to mystery,From life to life, draw near.More closely for the sake of themEach other's hands we press;Our voices take from them a toneOf deeper tenderness.Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours,Alike below, above,Or here or there, about us foldThe arms of one great love!We ask to-day no countersign,No party names we own;Unlabelled, individual,We bring ourselves alone.What cares the unconventioned woodFor pass-words of the town?The sound of fashion's shibbolethThe laughing waters drown.Here cant forgets his dreary tone,And care his face forlorn;The liberal air and sunshine laughThe bigot's zeal to scorn.From manhood's weary shoulder fallsHis load of selfish cares;And woman takes her rights as flowersAnd brooks and birds take theirs.The license of the happy woods,The brook's release are ours;The freedom of the unshamed windAmong the glad-eyed flowers.Yet here no evil thought finds place,Nor foot profane comes in;Our grove, like that of Samothrace,Is set apart from sin.We walk on holy ground; aboveA sky more holy smiles;The chant of the beatitudesSwells down these leafy aisles.Thanks to the gracious ProvidenceThat brings us here once more;For memories of the good behindAnd hopes of good before.And if, unknown to us, sweet daysOf June like this must come,Unseen of us these laurels clotheThe river-banks with bloom;And these green paths must soon be trodBy other feet than ours,Full long may annual pilgrims comeTo keep the Feast of Flowers;The matron be a girl once more,The bearded man a boy,And we, in heaven's eternal June,Be glad for earthly joy!1876.
The poetic and patriotic preacher, who had won fame in the East, went to California in 1860 and became a power on the Pacific coast. It was not long after the opening of the house of worship built for him that he died.
Amidst these glorious works of Thine,The solemn minarets of the pine,And awful Shasta's icy shrine,—Where swell Thy hymns from wave and gale,And organ-thunders never fail,Behind the cataract's silver veil,Our puny walls to Thee we raise,Our poor reed-music sounds Thy praise:Forgive, O Lord, our childish ways!For, kneeling on these altar-stairs,We urge Thee not with selfish prayers,Nor murmur at our daily cares.Before Thee, in an evil day,Our country's bleeding heart we lay,And dare not ask Thy hand to stay;But, through the war-cloud, pray to TheeFor union, but a union free,With peace that comes of purity!That Thou wilt bare Thy arm to, saveAnd, smiting through this Red Sea wave,Make broad a pathway for the slave!For us, confessing all our need,We trust nor rite nor word nor deed,Nor yet the broken staff of creed.Assured alone that Thou art goodTo each, as to the multitude,Eternal Love and Fatherhood,—Weak, sinful, blind, to Thee we kneel,Stretch dumbly forth our hands, and feelOur weakness is our strong appeal.So, by these Western gates of EvenWe wait to see with Thy forgivenThe opening Golden Gate of Heaven!Suffice it now. In time to beShall holier altars rise to Thee,—Thy Church our broad humanityWhite flowers of love its walls shall climb,Soft bells of peace shall ring its chime,Its days shall all be holy time.A sweeter song shall then be heard,—The music of the world's accordConfessing Christ, the Inward Word!That song shall swell from shore to shore,One hope, one faith, one love, restoreThe seamless robe that Jesus wore.
FOR THE HOUSE OF WORSHIP AT GEORGETOWN, ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER.
The giver of the house was the late George Peabody, of London.
Thou dwellest not, O Lord of allIn temples which thy children raise;Our work to thine is mean and small,And brief to thy eternal days.Forgive the weakness and the pride,If marred thereby our gift may be,For love, at least, has sanctifiedThe altar that we rear to thee.The heart and not the hand has wroughtFrom sunken base to tower aboveThe image of a tender thought,The memory of a deathless love!And though should never sound of speechOr organ echo from its wall,Its stones would pious lessons teach,Its shade in benedictions fall.Here should the dove of peace be found,And blessings and not curses given;Nor strife profane, nor hatred wound,The mingled loves of earth and heaven.Thou, who didst soothe with dying breathThe dear one watching by Thy cross,Forgetful of the pains of deathIn sorrow for her mighty loss,In memory of that tender claim,O Mother-born, the offering take,And make it worthy of Thy name,And bless it for a mother's sake!1868.
To-day the plant by Williams setIts summer bloom discloses;The wilding sweethrier of his prayersIs crowned with cultured roses.Once more the Island State repeatsThe lesson that he taught her,And binds his pearl of charityUpon her brown-locked daughter.Is 't fancy that he watches stillHis Providence plantations?That still the careful Founder takesA part on these occasions.Methinks I see that reverend form,Which all of us so well knowHe rises up to speak; he jogsThe presidential elbow."Good friends," he says, "you reap a fieldI sowed in self-denial,For toleration had its griefsAnd charity its trial."Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,To him must needs be givenWho heareth heresy and leavesThe heretic to Heaven!"I hear again the snuffled tones,I see in dreary visionDyspeptic dreamers, spiritual bores,And prophets with a mission."Each zealot thrust before my eyesHis Scripture-garbled label;All creeds were shouted in my earsAs with the tongues of Babel."Scourged at one cart-tail, each deniedThe hope of every other;Each martyr shook his branded fistAt the conscience of his brother!"How cleft the dreary drone of man.The shriller pipe of woman,As Gorton led his saints elect,Who held all things in common!"Their gay robes trailed in ditch and swamp,And torn by thorn and thicket,The dancing-girls of Merry MountCame dragging to my wicket."Shrill Anabaptists, shorn of ears;Gray witch-wives, hobbling slowly;And Antinomians, free of law,Whose very sins were holy."Hoarse ranters, crazed Fifth Monarchists,Of stripes and bondage braggarts,Pale Churchmen, with singed rubrics snatchedFrom Puritanic fagots."And last, not least, the Quakers came,With tongues still sore from burning,The Bay State's dust from off their feetBefore my threshold spurning;"A motley host, the Lord's debris,Faith's odds and ends together;Well might I shrink from guests with lungsTough as their breeches leather"If, when the hangman at their heelsCame, rope in hand to catch them,I took the hunted outcasts in,I never sent to fetch them."I fed, but spared them not a whit;I gave to all who walked in,Not clams and succotash alone,But stronger meat of doctrine."I proved the prophets false, I prickedThe bubble of perfection,And clapped upon their inner lightThe snuffers of election."And looking backward on my times,This credit I am taking;I kept each sectary's dish apart,No spiritual chowder making."Where now the blending signs of sectWould puzzle their assorter,The dry-shod Quaker kept the land,The Baptist held the water."A common coat now serves for both,The hat's no more a fixture;And which was wet and which was dry,Who knows in such a mixture?"Well! He who fashioned Peter's dreamTo bless them all is able;And bird and beast and creeping thingMake clean upon His table!"I walked by my own light; but whenThe ways of faith divided,Was I to force unwilling feetTo tread the path that I did?"I touched the garment-hem of truth,Yet saw not all its splendor;I knew enough of doubt to feelFor every conscience tender."God left men free of choice, as whenHis Eden-trees were planted;Because they chose amiss, should IDeny the gift He granted?"So, with a common sense of need,Our common weakness feeling,I left them with myself to GodAnd His all-gracious dealing!"I kept His plan whose rain and sunTo tare and wheat are given;And if the ways to hell were free,I left then free to heaven!"Take heart with us, O man of old,Soul-freedom's brave confessor,So love of God and man wax strong,Let sect and creed be lesser.The jarring discords of thy dayIn ours one hymn are swelling;The wandering feet, the severed paths,All seek our Father's dwelling.And slowly learns the world the truthThat makes us all thy debtor,—That holy life is more than rite,And spirit more than letter;That they who differ pole-wide servePerchance the common Master,And other sheep He hath than theyWho graze one narrow pasture!For truth's worst foe is he who claimsTo act as God's avenger,And deems, beyond his sentry-beat,The crystal walls in danger!Who sets for heresy his trapsOf verbal quirk and quibble,And weeds the garden of the LordWith Satan's borrowed dibble.To-day our hearts like organ keysOne Master's touch are feeling;The branches of a common VineHave only leaves of healing.Co-workers, yet from varied fields,We share this restful nooning;The Quaker with the Baptist hereBelieves in close communing.Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone,Too light for thy deserving;Thanks for thy generous faith in man,Thy trust in God unswerving.Still echo in the hearts of menThe words that thou hast spoken;No forge of hell can weld againThe fetters thou hast broken.The pilgrim needs a pass no moreFrom Roman or Genevan;Thought-free, no ghostly tollman keepsHenceforth the road to Heaven!
Men said at vespers: "All is well!"In one wild night the city fell;Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gainBefore the fiery hurricane.On threescore spires had sunset shone,Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.Men clasped each other's hands, and said"The City of the West is dead!"Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,The fiends of fire from street to street,Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,The dumb defiance of despair.A sudden impulse thrilled each wireThat signalled round that sea of fire;Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;In tears of pity died the flame!From East, from West, from South and North,The messages of hope shot forth,And, underneath the severing wave,The world, full-handed, reached to save.Fair seemed the old; but fairer stillThe new, the dreary void shall fillWith dearer homes than those o'erthrown,For love shall lay each corner-stone.Rise, stricken city! from thee throwThe ashen sackcloth of thy woe;And build, as to Amphion's strain,To songs of cheer thy walls again!How shrivelled in thy hot distressThe primal sin of selfishness!How instant rose, to take thy part,The angel in the human heart!Ah! not in vain the flames that tossedAbove thy dreadful holocaust;The Christ again has preached through theeThe Gospel of Humanity!Then lift once more thy towers on high,And fret with spires the western sky,To tell that God is yet with us,And love is still miraculous!1871.
Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines,As sweetly shall the loved one rest,As if beneath the whispering pinesAnd maple shadows of the West.Ye mourn, O hearts of home! for him,But, haply, mourn ye not alone;For him shall far-off eyes be dim,And pity speak in tongues unknown.There needs no graven line to giveThe story of his blameless youth;All hearts shall throb intuitive,And nature guess the simple truth.The very meaning of his nameShall many a tender tribute win;The stranger own his sacred claim,And all the world shall be his kin.And there, as here, on main and isle,The dews of holy peace shall fall,The same sweet heavens above him smile,And God's dear love be over all1874.
Longwood, not far from Bayard Taylor's birthplace in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, was the home of my esteemed friends John and Hannah Cox, whose golden wedding was celebrated in 1874.
With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow,The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.And, sweet as has life's vintage been through all your pleasant past,Still, as at Cana's marriage-feast, the best wine is the last!Again before me, with your names, fair Chester's landscape comes,Its meadows, woods, and ample barns, and quaint, stone-builded homes.The smooth-shorn vales, the wheaten slopes, the boscage green and soft,Of which their poet sings so well from towered Cedarcroft.And lo! from all the country-side come neighbors, kith and kin;From city, hamlet, farm-house old, the wedding guests come in.And they who, without scrip or purse, mob-hunted, travel-worn,In Freedom's age of martyrs came, as victors now return.Older and slower, yet the same, files in the long array,And hearts are light and eyes are glad, though heads are badger-gray.The fire-tried men of Thirty-eight who saw with me the fall,Midst roaring flames and shouting mob, of Pennsylvania Hall;And they of Lancaster who turned the cheeks of tyrants pale,Singing of freedom through the grates of Moyamensing jail!And haply with them, all unseen, old comrades, gone before,Pass, silently as shadows pass, within your open door,—The eagle face of Lindley Coates, brave Garrett's daring zeal,Christian grace of Pennock, the steadfast heart of Neal.Ah me! beyond all power to name, the worthies tried and true,Grave men, fair women, youth and maid, pass by in hushed review.Of varying faiths, a common cause fused all their hearts in one.God give them now, whate'er their names, the peace of duty done!How gladly would I tread again the old-remembered places,Sit down beside your hearth once more and look in the dear old faces!And thank you for the lessons your fifty years are teaching,For honest lives that louder speak than half our noisy preaching;For your steady faith and courage in that dark and evil time,When the Golden Rule was treason, and to feed the hungry, crime;For the poor slave's house of refuge when the hounds were on his track,And saint and sinner, church and state, joined hands to send him back.Blessings upon you!—What you did for each sad, suffering one,So homeless, faint, and naked, unto our Lord was done!Fair fall on Kennett's pleasant vales and Longwood's bowery waysThe mellow sunset of your lives, friends of my early days.May many more of quiet years be added to your sum,And, late at last, in tenderest love, the beckoning angel come.Dear hearts are here, dear hearts are there, alike below, above;Our friends are now in either world, and love is sure of love.1874.
All things are Thine: no gift have we,Lord of all gifts, to offer Thee;And hence with grateful hearts to-day,Thy own before Thy feet we lay.Thy will was in the builders' thought;Thy hand unseen amidst us wrought;Through mortal motive, scheme and plan,Thy wise eternal purpose ran.No lack Thy perfect fulness knew;For human needs and longings grewThis house of prayer, this home of rest,In the fair garden of the West.In weakness and in want we callOn Thee for whom the heavens are small;Thy glory is Thy children's good,Thy joy Thy tender Fatherhood.O Father! deign these walls to bless,Fill with Thy love their emptiness,And let their door a gateway beTo lead us from ourselves to Thee!1872.
No Berserk thirst of blood had they,No battle-joy was theirs, who setAgainst the alien bayonetTheir homespun breasts in that old day.Their feet had trodden peaceful, ways;They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;They saw not, what to us is plain,That God would make man's wrath his praise.No seers were they, but simple men;Its vast results the future hidThe meaning of the work they didWas strange and dark and doubtful then.Swift as their summons came they leftThe plough mid-furrow standing still,The half-ground corn grist in the mill,The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.They went where duty seemed to call,They scarcely asked the reason why;They only knew they could but die,And death was not the worst of all!Of man for man the sacrifice,All that was theirs to give, they gave.The flowers that blossomed from their graveHave sown themselves beneath all skies.Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,And shattered slavery's chain as well;On the sky's dome, as on a bell,Its echo struck the world's great hour.That fateful echo is not dumbThe nations listening to its soundWait, from a century's vantage-ground,The holier triumphs yet to come,—The bridal time of Law and Love,The gladness of the world's release,When, war-sick, at the feet of PeaceThe hawk shall nestle with the dove!—The golden age of brotherhoodUnknown to other rivalriesThan of the mild humanities,And gracious interchange of good,When closer strand shall lean to strand,Till meet, beneath saluting flags,The eagle of our mountain-crags,The lion of our Motherland!1875.
"Let there be light!" God spake of old,And over chaos dark and cold,And through the dead and formless frameOf nature, life and order came.Faint was the light at first that shoneOn giant fern and mastodon,On half-formed plant and beast of prey,And man as rude and wild as they.Age after age, like waves, o'erranThe earth, uplifting brute and man;And mind, at length, in symbols darkIts meanings traced on stone and bark.On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll,On plastic clay and leathern scroll,Man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed,And to! the Press was found at last!Then dead souls woke; the thoughts of menWhose bones were dust revived again;The cloister's silence found a tongue,Old prophets spake, old poets sung.And here, to-day, the dead look down,The kings of mind again we crown;We hear the voices lost so long,The sage's word, the sibyl's song.Here Greek and Roman find themselvesAlive along these crowded shelves;And Shakespeare treads again his stage,And Chaucer paints anew his age.As if some Pantheon's marbles brokeTheir stony trance, and lived and spoke,Life thrills along the alcoved hall,The lords of thought await our call!
'Neath skies that winter never knewThe air was full of light and balm,And warm and soft the Gulf wind blewThrough orange bloom and groves of palm.A stranger from the frozen North,Who sought the fount of health in vain,Sank homeless on the alien earth,And breathed the languid air with pain.God's angel came! The tender shadeOf pity made her blue eye dim;Against her woman's breast she laidThe drooping, fainting head of him.She bore him to a pleasant room,Flower-sweet and cool with salt sea air,And watched beside his bed, for whomHis far-off sisters might not care.She fanned his feverish brow and smoothedIts lines of pain with tenderest touch.With holy hymn and prayer she soothedThe trembling soul that feared so much.Through her the peace that passeth sightCame to him, as he lapsed awayAs one whose troubled dreams of nightSlide slowly into tranquil day.The sweetness of the Land of FlowersUpon his lonely grave she laidThe jasmine dropped its golden showers,The orange lent its bloom and shade.And something whispered in her thought,More sweet than mortal voices be"The service thou for him hast wroughtO daughter! hath been done for me."1875.
Written for the opening of the International Exhibition, Philadelphia, May 10, 1876. The music for the hymn was written by John K. Paine, and may be found in The Atlantic Monthly for June, 1876.
I.Our fathers' God! from out whose handThe centuries fall like grains of sand,We meet to-day, united, free,And loyal to our land and Thee,To thank Thee for the era done,And trust Thee for the opening one.II.Here, where of old, by Thy design,The fathers spake that word of ThineWhose echo is the glad refrainOf rended bolt and falling chain,To grace our festal time, from allThe zones of earth our guests we call.III.Be with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streets,Unveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.IV.Thou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath our Western skies fulfilThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.V.For art and labor met in truce,For beauty made the bride of use,We thank Thee; but, withal, we craveThe austere virtues strong to save,The honor proof to place or gold,The manhood never bought nor sold.VI.Oh make Thou us, through centuries long,In peace secure, in justice strong;Around our gift of freedom drawThe safeguards of Thy righteous lawAnd, cast in some diviner mould,Let the new cycle shame the old!
The end has come, as come it mustTo all things; in these sweet June daysThe teacher and the scholar trustTheir parting feet to separate ways.They part: but in the years to beShall pleasant memories cling to each,As shells bear inland from the seaThe murmur of the rhythmic beach.One knew the joy the sculptor knowsWhen, plastic to his lightest touch,His clay-wrought model slowly growsTo that fine grace desired so much.So daily grew before her eyesThe living shapes whereon she wrought,Strong, tender, innocently wise,The child's heart with the woman's thought.And one shall never quite forgetThe voice that called from dream and play,The firm but kindly hand that setHer feet in learning's pleasant way,—The joy of Undine soul-possessed,The wakening sense, the strange delightThat swelled the fabled statue's breastAnd filled its clouded eyes with sight.O Youth and Beauty, loved of all!Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams;In broader ways your footsteps fall,Ye test the truth of all that seams.Her little realm the teacher leaves,She breaks her wand of power apart,While, for your love and trust, she givesThe warm thanks of a grateful heart.Hers is the sober summer noonContrasted with your morn of spring,The waning with the waxing moon,The folded with the outspread wing.Across the distance of the yearsShe sends her God-speed back to you;She has no thought of doubts or fearsBe but yourselves, be pure, be true,And prompt in duty; heed the deep,Low voice of conscience; through the illAnd discord round about you, keepYour faith in human nature still.Be gentle: unto griefs and needs,Be pitiful as woman should,And, spite of all the lies of creeds,Hold fast the truth that God is good.Give and receive; go forth and blessThe world that needs the hand and heartOf Martha's helpful carefulnessNo less than Mary's better part.So shall the stream of time flow byAnd leave each year a richer good,And matron loveliness outvieThe nameless charm of maidenhood.And, when the world shall link your namesWith gracious lives and manners fine,The teacher shall assert her claims,And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"