It was not beauty's potent charm;For admiration followed herUnmindful of the rounded arm,The fair complexion's brilliancy,If form and features shapely wereOr lacked the grace of symmetry.So not by marked, especial powerShe grew endeared to human thought,But just because, in trial's hour,Was loving service to be doneOr sympathy and counsel sought,She made herself the needed one.Oh, great the blessedness must beOf heart and hand and brain alertIn projects wise and manifold,Impending sorrow to avertThat duller natures fail to see,Or stand aloof severe and cold!And who shall doubt that this is whyIn womanhood's florescent primeShe passed the portals of the sky?As if a life thus truly givenTo purpose pure and act sublimeWere needed also up in Heaven.
It was not beauty's potent charm;For admiration followed herUnmindful of the rounded arm,The fair complexion's brilliancy,If form and features shapely wereOr lacked the grace of symmetry.
So not by marked, especial powerShe grew endeared to human thought,But just because, in trial's hour,Was loving service to be doneOr sympathy and counsel sought,She made herself the needed one.
Oh, great the blessedness must beOf heart and hand and brain alertIn projects wise and manifold,Impending sorrow to avertThat duller natures fail to see,Or stand aloof severe and cold!
And who shall doubt that this is whyIn womanhood's florescent primeShe passed the portals of the sky?As if a life thus truly givenTo purpose pure and act sublimeWere needed also up in Heaven.
Sometimes the silver cord of lifeIs loosed at one brief stroke;As when the elements at strife,With Nature's wild contentions rife,Uproot the sturdy oak.Or fell disease, in patience borne,Attenuates the frameTill the meek sufferer, wan and worn,Of energy and beauty shorn,Death's sweet release would claim.By instant touch or long decayIs dissolution wrought;When, lost to earth, the grave and gay,The young and old who pass away,Abide in hallowed thought.In dear regard together drawn,Affection's debt to pay,Fond greetings we exchange at dawnWith one who, ere the day be gone,Is bruised and lifeless clay.
Sometimes the silver cord of lifeIs loosed at one brief stroke;As when the elements at strife,With Nature's wild contentions rife,Uproot the sturdy oak.
Or fell disease, in patience borne,Attenuates the frameTill the meek sufferer, wan and worn,Of energy and beauty shorn,Death's sweet release would claim.
By instant touch or long decayIs dissolution wrought;When, lost to earth, the grave and gay,The young and old who pass away,Abide in hallowed thought.
In dear regard together drawn,Affection's debt to pay,Fond greetings we exchange at dawnWith one who, ere the day be gone,Is bruised and lifeless clay.
O thou in manhood's morning-timeWith health and hope elate,For whom in youth's enchanting primeThe bells of promise seemed to chime,We mourn thy early fate!To us how sudden—yet to theePerchance God kindly gaveSome warning, ere the fatal keyUnlocked the door of mysteryThat lies beyond the grave.Then let us hope that one who foundSuch favor, trust, and love,And cordial praise from all around,For rare fidelity renowned,Found favor, too, above.So "all is well," though swift or slowGod's will be done; and weDraw near to him, for close and lowBeneath his chastening hand, the blowWill fall less heavily.
O thou in manhood's morning-timeWith health and hope elate,For whom in youth's enchanting primeThe bells of promise seemed to chime,We mourn thy early fate!
To us how sudden—yet to theePerchance God kindly gaveSome warning, ere the fatal keyUnlocked the door of mysteryThat lies beyond the grave.
Then let us hope that one who foundSuch favor, trust, and love,And cordial praise from all around,For rare fidelity renowned,Found favor, too, above.
So "all is well," though swift or slowGod's will be done; and weDraw near to him, for close and lowBeneath his chastening hand, the blowWill fall less heavily.
Of specious weight like tissue freightThe snowflakes are—in sparkle pureAs the richparureA lovely queen were proud to wear;As volatile, as fine and rareAs thistle-down dispersed in air,Or bits of filmy lace;Like nature's tear-drops strewn aroundThat beautify and warm the ground,But melt upon my face.A ton or more against my doorThey lie, and look, in form and tint,Like piles of lint,When war's alarum roused the land,Wrought out by woman's loyal handFrom linen rag, and robe, and band—From garments cast aside—In hospital, on battle-fieldThe shattered limb that bound and healed,Or stanched life's ebbing tide.I see the gleam of lake and stream,The silver glint in frost portrayedOf the bright cascade;They bear the moisture of marshes dank,The dew of the lawn, or river bank,The river itself by sunlight drank;All these in frigid air,That strange alembic, crystallizeIn odd, fantastic shape and sizeLike gems of dazzling glare.Oh, of the snow such fancies grow,'Till thought is lost in wandering,And wonderingIf portions of their draperyThe angel beings, sad to seeSo much of earth's impurity,Have dropped from clearer skiesAs snowflakes, hiding stain and blotTo make this world a fairer spot,And more like Paradise.
Of specious weight like tissue freightThe snowflakes are—in sparkle pureAs the richparureA lovely queen were proud to wear;As volatile, as fine and rareAs thistle-down dispersed in air,Or bits of filmy lace;Like nature's tear-drops strewn aroundThat beautify and warm the ground,But melt upon my face.
A ton or more against my doorThey lie, and look, in form and tint,Like piles of lint,When war's alarum roused the land,Wrought out by woman's loyal handFrom linen rag, and robe, and band—From garments cast aside—In hospital, on battle-fieldThe shattered limb that bound and healed,Or stanched life's ebbing tide.
I see the gleam of lake and stream,The silver glint in frost portrayedOf the bright cascade;They bear the moisture of marshes dank,The dew of the lawn, or river bank,The river itself by sunlight drank;All these in frigid air,That strange alembic, crystallizeIn odd, fantastic shape and sizeLike gems of dazzling glare.
Oh, of the snow such fancies grow,'Till thought is lost in wandering,And wonderingIf portions of their draperyThe angel beings, sad to seeSo much of earth's impurity,Have dropped from clearer skiesAs snowflakes, hiding stain and blotTo make this world a fairer spot,And more like Paradise.
One summer time, with love imbued,To climb the mount, explore the wood,Or rove from pole to pole,Upon Monadnock's brow I stood—A lone, adventurous soul.Beyond the Bay State border-lineA sweeping vista, grand and fine,Embraced the Berkshire hills;Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine,And country domiciles.Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique,And Holyoke, twin companion peak,Appeared gigantic cones;The burning sunlight scorched my cheek,And seemed to melt the stones.Beneath a gnarled and twisted rootI loosed a pebble with my footThat leaped the precipice,And like an arrow seemed to shootAdown the deep abyss.
One summer time, with love imbued,To climb the mount, explore the wood,Or rove from pole to pole,Upon Monadnock's brow I stood—A lone, adventurous soul.
Beyond the Bay State border-lineA sweeping vista, grand and fine,Embraced the Berkshire hills;Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine,And country domiciles.
Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique,And Holyoke, twin companion peak,Appeared gigantic cones;The burning sunlight scorched my cheek,And seemed to melt the stones.
Beneath a gnarled and twisted rootI loosed a pebble with my footThat leaped the precipice,And like an arrow seemed to shootAdown the deep abyss.
Beside the base that solstice dayA city chap who chanced to strayWas shooting somewhat, too;Who, when the nugget sped that way,His firelock quickly drew.While right and left he sought the quail,Or the timid hare that crossed his trail,Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!"That might have turned the visage paleOf a red-skinned Chippewa.The game was his—for it made him quail;He flung his gun and fled the vale,The mountain-dwellers say,As though pursued by a comet's tail—And disappeared for aye.
Beside the base that solstice dayA city chap who chanced to strayWas shooting somewhat, too;Who, when the nugget sped that way,His firelock quickly drew.
While right and left he sought the quail,Or the timid hare that crossed his trail,Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!"That might have turned the visage paleOf a red-skinned Chippewa.
The game was his—for it made him quail;He flung his gun and fled the vale,The mountain-dwellers say,As though pursued by a comet's tail—And disappeared for aye.
Fresh from piano, school, and books,A happy girl with rosy looksYoung Plowman wooed and won; despiteHer pretty, pouting prejudice,Her deep distaste for rural blissOr countryfied delight.Romance through all her nature ran—Indeed, to wed a husband-manSuffused her ardent maiden thought;But lofty fancy dwelt uponA new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn,A city's corner lot.Her lily fingers that so wellCould paint a scene—in aquarelle—Or broider plush with leaves and vines,No more of real labor knewThan waxen petals of the dewOn native eglantines.Anon, with lapse of tender waysThat emphasized the courting days,The housewife in her apron blue,As mistress of her new abode,By frequent lachrymations showedHer grief and blunders too.The butter-making, bread and cheese,The old folks difficult to please,The harvest hands—voracious bears!—The infantry, a parent's pride,By duos proudly classified:So multiplied her cares.The treadmill round of duties thatMakes any life inane and flat,Without diversion sandwiched in,The drudgery, the overplusOf toil and trouble arduous,Were rugged discipline.What time for books and music, whenThe lambs were bleating in their pen,The chickens peeping at the door;The rodent gnawing at the churn,The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn,The kettle boiling o'er?Tohers, so far between and few,What resting-spells the farmer knew!What intervals for culture! andWhen intellect assumed the race,He peerless held the foremost place—No nobler in the land.By virtue of exalted rank"The brilliant senator from——"Adorns society's expanse;While by his side with folded hands,Her beauty gone, the woman standsWho "never had a chance."
Fresh from piano, school, and books,A happy girl with rosy looksYoung Plowman wooed and won; despiteHer pretty, pouting prejudice,Her deep distaste for rural blissOr countryfied delight.
Romance through all her nature ran—Indeed, to wed a husband-manSuffused her ardent maiden thought;But lofty fancy dwelt uponA new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn,A city's corner lot.
Her lily fingers that so wellCould paint a scene—in aquarelle—Or broider plush with leaves and vines,No more of real labor knewThan waxen petals of the dewOn native eglantines.
Anon, with lapse of tender waysThat emphasized the courting days,The housewife in her apron blue,As mistress of her new abode,By frequent lachrymations showedHer grief and blunders too.
The butter-making, bread and cheese,The old folks difficult to please,The harvest hands—voracious bears!—The infantry, a parent's pride,By duos proudly classified:So multiplied her cares.
The treadmill round of duties thatMakes any life inane and flat,Without diversion sandwiched in,The drudgery, the overplusOf toil and trouble arduous,Were rugged discipline.
What time for books and music, whenThe lambs were bleating in their pen,The chickens peeping at the door;The rodent gnawing at the churn,The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn,The kettle boiling o'er?
Tohers, so far between and few,What resting-spells the farmer knew!What intervals for culture! andWhen intellect assumed the race,He peerless held the foremost place—No nobler in the land.
By virtue of exalted rank"The brilliant senator from——"Adorns society's expanse;While by his side with folded hands,Her beauty gone, the woman standsWho "never had a chance."
In sad procession borne awayTo sound of funeral knell,Affection's tribute thus we pay,And in earth's shelt'ring bosom layThe friend to whom but yesterdayWe gave the sad farewell.But scarce the melancholy soundHas died upon the ear,Before the mournful dirge is drownedBy wedding-anthems' glad rebound,That stir the solemn air aroundWith merry peals and clear.
In sad procession borne awayTo sound of funeral knell,Affection's tribute thus we pay,And in earth's shelt'ring bosom layThe friend to whom but yesterdayWe gave the sad farewell.
But scarce the melancholy soundHas died upon the ear,Before the mournful dirge is drownedBy wedding-anthems' glad rebound,That stir the solemn air aroundWith merry peals and clear.
Within our home doth gladness treadSo closely upon griefThat, in the tears of sorrow shedO'er our beloved, lamented dead,We see reflected joy insteadThat gives a blest relief.A father and a daughter goneBeyond our fireside—For one we loved and leaned uponThe skillful archer Death had drawnHis bow; and one in life's sweet dawnWent out a happy bride.We gave to Heaven, in manhood's prime,Him whose brave strength and worthLife's rugged steeps had taught to climb;And her, for whom a tuneful rhymeThe bells of promise sweetly chime,We consecrate to earth.Thus each a mystic path, untried,Has entered—God is just!We leave with him our friend who died,With him we leave our fair young brideWho shall no more with us abide,And in His goodness trust.
Within our home doth gladness treadSo closely upon griefThat, in the tears of sorrow shedO'er our beloved, lamented dead,We see reflected joy insteadThat gives a blest relief.
A father and a daughter goneBeyond our fireside—For one we loved and leaned uponThe skillful archer Death had drawnHis bow; and one in life's sweet dawnWent out a happy bride.
We gave to Heaven, in manhood's prime,Him whose brave strength and worthLife's rugged steeps had taught to climb;And her, for whom a tuneful rhymeThe bells of promise sweetly chime,We consecrate to earth.
Thus each a mystic path, untried,Has entered—God is just!We leave with him our friend who died,With him we leave our fair young brideWho shall no more with us abide,And in His goodness trust.
Oh, life and death, uncertainty,Bright hopes and anxious fears,Commingle so bewilderingly,That perfect joy we may not seeTill all shall reunited beBeyond this vale of tears!
Oh, life and death, uncertainty,Bright hopes and anxious fears,Commingle so bewilderingly,That perfect joy we may not seeTill all shall reunited beBeyond this vale of tears!
Fair summer home peninsula,Enriched by every breezeFrom fragrant islands, wafted farAcross the sunny seas!A profile rare! a height of landOutlined 'gainst heaven's blueWith bolder touch than skillful handOf artist ever drew.In "mountain billows" that paradeThe grandeur of the deep,Is His supremacy displayedWhose hands the waters keep.No sweep of waves, in broad expanse,With wild, weird melody,Shall thus an unseen world enhance—"There shall be no more sea!"A wealth of joy-perfected days,Where glorious sunset dyes,Resplendent in declining rays,Surpass Italia's skies!Proud caravansaries that competeIn studied arts to pleaseThe multitude, with restless feet,From earth's antipodes!A motley company astray:The sojourner for health,The grave, serene, thedevotéeOf fashion and of wealth.Artistic cottages uprearedIn beauty, strength, and skill—The happy, healthful homes endearedTo lovers of Watch Hill!A golden crown adorns the spot;Forever blessed beThe hand beneficent that wrought"A temple by the sea!"
Fair summer home peninsula,Enriched by every breezeFrom fragrant islands, wafted farAcross the sunny seas!
A profile rare! a height of landOutlined 'gainst heaven's blueWith bolder touch than skillful handOf artist ever drew.
In "mountain billows" that paradeThe grandeur of the deep,Is His supremacy displayedWhose hands the waters keep.
No sweep of waves, in broad expanse,With wild, weird melody,Shall thus an unseen world enhance—"There shall be no more sea!"
A wealth of joy-perfected days,Where glorious sunset dyes,Resplendent in declining rays,Surpass Italia's skies!
Proud caravansaries that competeIn studied arts to pleaseThe multitude, with restless feet,From earth's antipodes!
A motley company astray:The sojourner for health,The grave, serene, thedevotéeOf fashion and of wealth.
Artistic cottages uprearedIn beauty, strength, and skill—The happy, healthful homes endearedTo lovers of Watch Hill!
A golden crown adorns the spot;Forever blessed beThe hand beneficent that wrought"A temple by the sea!"
A star in some bright diademIn glory it shall be,For truly, "I will honor them,"Saith God, "who honor me."When Christians meet to praise and pray,May feet that never trodThe sanctuary learn the wayUnto the house of God.Glad pæans down the centuriesWith joy the world shall thrill:"The Lord, revered and honored, isThe glory of Watch Hill!"
A star in some bright diademIn glory it shall be,For truly, "I will honor them,"Saith God, "who honor me."
When Christians meet to praise and pray,May feet that never trodThe sanctuary learn the wayUnto the house of God.
Glad pæans down the centuriesWith joy the world shall thrill:"The Lord, revered and honored, isThe glory of Watch Hill!"
One morn I looked across the way,And saw you fling your window wideTo welcome in the breath of MayIn breezes from the mountain-side,And greet the sunlight's earliest rayWith happy look and satisfied.The pansies on your window-sillIn terra cotta flowerpot,Like royal gold and purple frillUpon the stony casement wrought,Adorned your tasteful domicileAnd claimed your time and care and thought.In cherry trees the robins sangTheir sweetest carol to your ear,And shouts of merry children rangOut on the dewy atmosphere,But to my heart there came a pangThat my salute you did not hear.I envied then the favored breezeThat dallied with your flowing hair,Begrudged the songsters in the treesAnd longed to be a flow'ret fair—Some favorite blossom like heartease—Within your miniature parterre.O heart, that finds such ample roomWithin thy confines broad and true,For song and sunshine and perfumeAnd all benign impulses—go,I pray thee, dissipate my gloom—And take in thy petitioner too!
One morn I looked across the way,And saw you fling your window wideTo welcome in the breath of MayIn breezes from the mountain-side,And greet the sunlight's earliest rayWith happy look and satisfied.
The pansies on your window-sillIn terra cotta flowerpot,Like royal gold and purple frillUpon the stony casement wrought,Adorned your tasteful domicileAnd claimed your time and care and thought.
In cherry trees the robins sangTheir sweetest carol to your ear,And shouts of merry children rangOut on the dewy atmosphere,But to my heart there came a pangThat my salute you did not hear.
I envied then the favored breezeThat dallied with your flowing hair,Begrudged the songsters in the treesAnd longed to be a flow'ret fair—Some favorite blossom like heartease—Within your miniature parterre.
O heart, that finds such ample roomWithin thy confines broad and true,For song and sunshine and perfumeAnd all benign impulses—go,I pray thee, dissipate my gloom—And take in thy petitioner too!
He was a man whose lot was cast,As some might think, in lines severe;In humble toil whose life was passedFrom week to week, from year to year;And yet, by wife and children blessed,He labored on with cheerful zest.As one revered and set apart,A quaint, unusual name he boreThat well became the frugal heart;While plain habiliments he woreWithout a tremor or a chillAt thought of some uncanceled bill.A king might not disdain to wearThe title so appropriateTo one who never sought to shareExalted station 'mong the great,Nor cared if on the scroll of fameWere never traced his worthy name.As bound by honor's righteous lawIn strictest rectitude he wrought—The man who calmly, clearly sawHis duty, and who dallied not—To garner life's necessitiesFor those whose comfort heightened his.The parent bird its brood protectsAs fledglings in their downy nest,Until a Power their flight directsFrom trial trips to distant quest,Through trackless zones of ether blue,For bird companions strange and new.But ere his babes from prattlers grew,Upon his knee or by his side,To womanhood and manhood true—Too soon we thought—the father died;How could we know, when Death was nighThose little wings were taught to fly?Another name his boyhood knew,So seldom heard that lapse of yearsHad made it seem a thing untrue,Unmusical to friendly ears;And thus his appellation oddHis passport was where'er he trod.So long, on every lip and tongueAs if by universal whim,To him had his cognomen clung,And like a garment fitted him,That angels even must have heardOf one, like them, in love preferred.And when he came to Heaven's door,To Peter's self or acolyte,The holy warder looking o'er,"'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright;And his pilgrim spirit passed withinBecause his walk with God had been.
He was a man whose lot was cast,As some might think, in lines severe;In humble toil whose life was passedFrom week to week, from year to year;And yet, by wife and children blessed,He labored on with cheerful zest.
As one revered and set apart,A quaint, unusual name he boreThat well became the frugal heart;While plain habiliments he woreWithout a tremor or a chillAt thought of some uncanceled bill.
A king might not disdain to wearThe title so appropriateTo one who never sought to shareExalted station 'mong the great,Nor cared if on the scroll of fameWere never traced his worthy name.
As bound by honor's righteous lawIn strictest rectitude he wrought—The man who calmly, clearly sawHis duty, and who dallied not—To garner life's necessitiesFor those whose comfort heightened his.
The parent bird its brood protectsAs fledglings in their downy nest,Until a Power their flight directsFrom trial trips to distant quest,Through trackless zones of ether blue,For bird companions strange and new.
But ere his babes from prattlers grew,Upon his knee or by his side,To womanhood and manhood true—Too soon we thought—the father died;How could we know, when Death was nighThose little wings were taught to fly?
Another name his boyhood knew,So seldom heard that lapse of yearsHad made it seem a thing untrue,Unmusical to friendly ears;And thus his appellation oddHis passport was where'er he trod.
So long, on every lip and tongueAs if by universal whim,To him had his cognomen clung,And like a garment fitted him,That angels even must have heardOf one, like them, in love preferred.
And when he came to Heaven's door,To Peter's self or acolyte,The holy warder looking o'er,"'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright;And his pilgrim spirit passed withinBecause his walk with God had been.
Sweet resting place! that long hath beenA boon Elysian 'mid the dinOf city life, 'mid city smoke;Where weary ones who toil and spinHave turned aside as to an innWhose swinging sign a welcome spoke;Where misanthropes find medicineIn peals of laughter that beginWith ancient, resurrected joke,Or ready wit of harlequin;Where children, free from discipline,Take on Diversion's easy yoke.
Sweet resting place! that long hath beenA boon Elysian 'mid the dinOf city life, 'mid city smoke;Where weary ones who toil and spinHave turned aside as to an innWhose swinging sign a welcome spoke;Where misanthropes find medicineIn peals of laughter that beginWith ancient, resurrected joke,Or ready wit of harlequin;Where children, free from discipline,Take on Diversion's easy yoke.
Fair oasis! to view arightIts charming paths, its sloping height,Its beautiful and broad expanse,Must one approach in witching nightWhen, like abodes of airy spriteRevealed unto the wondering glance,O'erflooded with electric lightThan Luna's beams more dazzling bright,Illumined nooks the scene enhance;While zephyrs mischievous uniteThe timid stroller to affrightBy swaying boughs in shadow dance.The Capitol that crowns the hillWhere Boreas sweeps with icy chill,A masterpiece of studied artConceived by genius versatileAnd fashioned with unerring skill,O'erlooks the busy, crowded mart,And, like a kingly domicile,Its burnished dome and sculpture thrillWith admiration every heart;And strangers pause beyond the rillTo view its grandeur, lingering still,And with reluctant steps depart.
Fair oasis! to view arightIts charming paths, its sloping height,Its beautiful and broad expanse,Must one approach in witching nightWhen, like abodes of airy spriteRevealed unto the wondering glance,O'erflooded with electric lightThan Luna's beams more dazzling bright,Illumined nooks the scene enhance;While zephyrs mischievous uniteThe timid stroller to affrightBy swaying boughs in shadow dance.
The Capitol that crowns the hillWhere Boreas sweeps with icy chill,A masterpiece of studied artConceived by genius versatileAnd fashioned with unerring skill,O'erlooks the busy, crowded mart,And, like a kingly domicile,Its burnished dome and sculpture thrillWith admiration every heart;And strangers pause beyond the rillTo view its grandeur, lingering still,And with reluctant steps depart.
O Bushnell Park, memorial soil!That marks success (though near to foil)Of one who with prophetic ken,With honest zeal and ceaseless toil,Opposed the vandal wish to spoilThis lovely bit of vale and glen;Who, 'mid discussion and turmoilOf adverse minds, did not recoilFrom vigorous stroke of tongue and pen;And then, till passion ceased to boil,On troubled waters poured out oilAnd to his plans won other men.So when, fatigued and overwrought,In summer time when skies are hotWe seek its verdant, velvet sward,Oh may we hold in reverent thoughtThe debt we owe, forgetting notThe spirit passed to its rewardOf one whose giant soul was fraughtWith true benignity—who soughtTo touch humanity's quick chordWith fire from Heaven's altar brought,That love and zeal and being caughtAs inspiration from the Lord.
O Bushnell Park, memorial soil!That marks success (though near to foil)Of one who with prophetic ken,With honest zeal and ceaseless toil,Opposed the vandal wish to spoilThis lovely bit of vale and glen;Who, 'mid discussion and turmoilOf adverse minds, did not recoilFrom vigorous stroke of tongue and pen;And then, till passion ceased to boil,On troubled waters poured out oilAnd to his plans won other men.
So when, fatigued and overwrought,In summer time when skies are hotWe seek its verdant, velvet sward,Oh may we hold in reverent thoughtThe debt we owe, forgetting notThe spirit passed to its rewardOf one whose giant soul was fraughtWith true benignity—who soughtTo touch humanity's quick chordWith fire from Heaven's altar brought,That love and zeal and being caughtAs inspiration from the Lord.
Afar my loyal spirit stirredAt mention of his name;Afar in ringing notes I heardThe clarion voice of fame;So to his tomb, hope long deferred,With reverent step I came.The pilgrim muse revivifiedA half-forgotten day:A slow procession, tearful-eyed,In funeral array,And from MacGregor's lonely sideA hero borne away.Here sleeps he now, where long agoHath nature raised his mound:A mighty channel far below,Divided hills around,Where countless thousands come and goAs to a shrine renowned.With awe do strangers' eyes discernA casket mid the greenLuxuriance of flower and fern;Airy and cool and clean,Unchanged from spring to spring's return,This charnel chamber scene.His country's weal his care and thought,Beloved in peace was he;Magnanimous in war—shall notThe nation grateful be,And render at his burial spotA testimonial free?Oh, let us, ere the days come onWhen energy is spent,To him, the silent soldier gone,Statesman and President,On Riverside's majestic lawnUprear a monument.
Afar my loyal spirit stirredAt mention of his name;Afar in ringing notes I heardThe clarion voice of fame;So to his tomb, hope long deferred,With reverent step I came.
The pilgrim muse revivifiedA half-forgotten day:A slow procession, tearful-eyed,In funeral array,And from MacGregor's lonely sideA hero borne away.
Here sleeps he now, where long agoHath nature raised his mound:A mighty channel far below,Divided hills around,Where countless thousands come and goAs to a shrine renowned.
With awe do strangers' eyes discernA casket mid the greenLuxuriance of flower and fern;Airy and cool and clean,Unchanged from spring to spring's return,This charnel chamber scene.
His country's weal his care and thought,Beloved in peace was he;Magnanimous in war—shall notThe nation grateful be,And render at his burial spotA testimonial free?
Oh, let us, ere the days come onWhen energy is spent,To him, the silent soldier gone,Statesman and President,On Riverside's majestic lawnUprear a monument.
Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious bornThan others—shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that—That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn,Nor even show this slight regard—the lifting of the hat?Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earthIs common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind?Except in purity is there no royal birth,No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind.Life is so short—one journey long, a pilgrimageThat we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again;Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page,And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men?To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a handTo one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair,May help him to look up and better understandWhy God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there.
Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious bornThan others—shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that—That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn,Nor even show this slight regard—the lifting of the hat?
Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earthIs common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind?Except in purity is there no royal birth,No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind.
Life is so short—one journey long, a pilgrimageThat we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again;Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page,And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men?
To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a handTo one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair,May help him to look up and better understandWhy God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there.
Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheapAs kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring;More precious too than all the treasures of the deep,Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring.Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good!Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim;Of each may it be said, of the great multitude:Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame!Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety,Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife,Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy,Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life?Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant stingLost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully;And ours shall be the disapproval of the King—"Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me."
Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheapAs kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring;More precious too than all the treasures of the deep,Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring.
Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good!Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim;Of each may it be said, of the great multitude:Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame!
Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety,Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife,Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy,Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life?
Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant stingLost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully;And ours shall be the disapproval of the King—"Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me."
The artist and the loom unseen,In textures soft ascrepe de chineSpring weaves her royal robe of green,With grasses fringed and daisies dotted,With furzy tufts like mosses fineAnd showy clumps of eglantine,With dainty shrub and creeping vineUpon the verdant fabric knotted.Oh, winter takes our love awayFor ashen hues of sober gray!So when the blooming, blushing MayComes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle,With arbutus her corsage laced,And roses clinging to her waist,We crown her charming queen of taste,Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle.For eighteen centuries and moreHer fairy hands have modeled o'erThe same habiliments she woreAt her primeval coronation;And still the pattern exquisite,For every age a perfect fit,In every land the favorite,Elicits world-wide admiration.
The artist and the loom unseen,In textures soft ascrepe de chineSpring weaves her royal robe of green,With grasses fringed and daisies dotted,With furzy tufts like mosses fineAnd showy clumps of eglantine,With dainty shrub and creeping vineUpon the verdant fabric knotted.
Oh, winter takes our love awayFor ashen hues of sober gray!So when the blooming, blushing MayComes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle,With arbutus her corsage laced,And roses clinging to her waist,We crown her charming queen of taste,Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle.
For eighteen centuries and moreHer fairy hands have modeled o'erThe same habiliments she woreAt her primeval coronation;And still the pattern exquisite,For every age a perfect fit,In every land the favorite,Elicits world-wide admiration.
Gay butterflies of fashion, youWho wear a suit a year or two,Then agitate for something new,Look at Regina, the patrician!Her cleverness is more than goldWho so transforms from fabrics oldThe things a marvel to behold,And glories in the exhibition.Why worry for an overdress,The acme of luxuriousness,Beyond all envy to possess,Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces!Why flutter round in pretty piqueTo follow style's capricious freak,To matchpongeeormoire antique,And break your peace in hopeless pieces?O mantua-maker, costumer,And fair-robed wearer! studyherAnd imitate the conjurerSo prettily economizing,Without demur, regret, or pout,Who always puts the bright side outAnd never frets at all aboutThe world'spenchantfor criticizing.
Gay butterflies of fashion, youWho wear a suit a year or two,Then agitate for something new,Look at Regina, the patrician!Her cleverness is more than goldWho so transforms from fabrics oldThe things a marvel to behold,And glories in the exhibition.
Why worry for an overdress,The acme of luxuriousness,Beyond all envy to possess,Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces!Why flutter round in pretty piqueTo follow style's capricious freak,To matchpongeeormoire antique,And break your peace in hopeless pieces?
O mantua-maker, costumer,And fair-robed wearer! studyherAnd imitate the conjurerSo prettily economizing,Without demur, regret, or pout,Who always puts the bright side outAnd never frets at all aboutThe world'spenchantfor criticizing.
Kind friend, you do not know how muchI prize this time-ly treasure,So dainty, diligent, and suchA constant source of pleasure.The man of brains who could inventSo true a chrono-meterHas set a charming precedent,And made a good repeater.It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,Suggestive of the donor;And 'tends to business—never sickA bit more than the owner.It goes when I do; when I stop(As by the dial showing)It never lets a second drop,But simply keeps on going.It tells me when I am to eat,Which isn't necessary;When food with me is obsolete,I'll be a reliquary.
Kind friend, you do not know how muchI prize this time-ly treasure,So dainty, diligent, and suchA constant source of pleasure.
The man of brains who could inventSo true a chrono-meterHas set a charming precedent,And made a good repeater.
It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,Suggestive of the donor;And 'tends to business—never sickA bit more than the owner.
It goes when I do; when I stop(As by the dial showing)It never lets a second drop,But simply keeps on going.
It tells me when I am to eat,Which isn't necessary;When food with me is obsolete,I'll be a reliquary.
It tells me early when to rise,And bother withdejeuner;To sally forth and exercise,And fill up myporte-monnaie.I hear it talking in the night,As if it were in clover:You've never lost your appetite,You've never been run over.It makes me wish that I might liveMore faithful unto duty,And unto others something giveLike this bijou of beauty.It holds its hands before its face,So very modest is it;So like the people in the placeWhere I delight to visit.Sometimes I wonder if it criesThe course I am pursuing;Because it has so many I-sAnd must know what I'm doing.Sometimes I fear it makes me cry—No matter, and no pity—Afraid at last I'll have to dieIn some far, foreign city.
It tells me early when to rise,And bother withdejeuner;To sally forth and exercise,And fill up myporte-monnaie.
I hear it talking in the night,As if it were in clover:You've never lost your appetite,You've never been run over.
It makes me wish that I might liveMore faithful unto duty,And unto others something giveLike this bijou of beauty.
It holds its hands before its face,So very modest is it;So like the people in the placeWhere I delight to visit.
Sometimes I wonder if it criesThe course I am pursuing;Because it has so many I-sAnd must know what I'm doing.
Sometimes I fear it makes me cry—No matter, and no pity—Afraid at last I'll have to dieIn some far, foreign city.
It travels with me everywhereAnd chirrups like a cricket;As if it said with anxious air,"Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"Companion of my lonelinessAlong my journey westward,It never leaves me comfortless,But has the last and best word.I would not spoil its lovely face,And so I go behind it,And hold it like a china vase,So careful when I wind it.A clock is always excellentThat has its label on,And proves a fine advertisementFor Waterbury, Conn.Those Yankees—ah! they never shunA chance to make a dime,And counterfeit the very sunIn keeping "Standard Time."Ah, well! the little clock has provedThe best of all bonanzas;And thus my happy heart is movedTo these effusive stanzas.
It travels with me everywhereAnd chirrups like a cricket;As if it said with anxious air,"Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"
Companion of my lonelinessAlong my journey westward,It never leaves me comfortless,But has the last and best word.
I would not spoil its lovely face,And so I go behind it,And hold it like a china vase,So careful when I wind it.
A clock is always excellentThat has its label on,And proves a fine advertisementFor Waterbury, Conn.
Those Yankees—ah! they never shunA chance to make a dime,And counterfeit the very sunIn keeping "Standard Time."
Ah, well! the little clock has provedThe best of all bonanzas;And thus my happy heart is movedTo these effusive stanzas.
Along the avenue I passHuge piles of wood and stone,And glance at each amorphous mass,Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass,With half resentful groan.Say I: "O labor, to despoilSome lovely forest scene,Or at the granite stratum toil,And desecrate whole roods of soil,Is vandal-like and mean!"Than ever to disfigure thusOur prairie garden-land,Let me consort with Cerberus,Be chained to crags precipitous,Or seek an alien strand."But while this pining, pouting MuseThe interval ignores,Deft industry, no time to lose,Contrives and carries, hoists and hews,And symmetry restores.Behold! of rock and pile and boardA modern miracle,My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored,That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd,And far more beautiful.The artisan's receding gaitHas brushed the chips away,Where innocence shall recreate,Or like the flowers grow, and waitThe balminess of May.An arid spot, where careless feetHave long been wont to roam,Where cattle grazed, as if to eatWere life's delicious, richest treat,Becomes a charming home.O man primeval! hadst thou known,Ere rude hands scooped thy grave,Of Homestead Act, or Building Loan,Thou wouldst have quite disdained to ownA rugged cliff or cave.And now I see how skill and artMay cleave fair nature through,Disintegrate her breathing heart,And to the tissues torn impartA use and beauty new.
Along the avenue I passHuge piles of wood and stone,And glance at each amorphous mass,Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass,With half resentful groan.
Say I: "O labor, to despoilSome lovely forest scene,Or at the granite stratum toil,And desecrate whole roods of soil,Is vandal-like and mean!
"Than ever to disfigure thusOur prairie garden-land,Let me consort with Cerberus,Be chained to crags precipitous,Or seek an alien strand."
But while this pining, pouting MuseThe interval ignores,Deft industry, no time to lose,Contrives and carries, hoists and hews,And symmetry restores.
Behold! of rock and pile and boardA modern miracle,My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored,That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd,And far more beautiful.
The artisan's receding gaitHas brushed the chips away,Where innocence shall recreate,Or like the flowers grow, and waitThe balminess of May.
An arid spot, where careless feetHave long been wont to roam,Where cattle grazed, as if to eatWere life's delicious, richest treat,Becomes a charming home.
O man primeval! hadst thou known,Ere rude hands scooped thy grave,Of Homestead Act, or Building Loan,Thou wouldst have quite disdained to ownA rugged cliff or cave.
And now I see how skill and artMay cleave fair nature through,Disintegrate her breathing heart,And to the tissues torn impartA use and beauty new.