Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sentHis angel Sorrow on my heart to layHer hand in benediction, and to say,“Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent,For He doth now recall it,” long ago.His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walkedFor years beside me, and we two have talkedAs chosen friends together. Thus I knowTrouble and Sorrow are not near of kin.Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wearsUpon her brow the seal of many cares;But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within.She sits with Patience in perpetual calm,Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm.
Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sentHis angel Sorrow on my heart to layHer hand in benediction, and to say,“Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent,For He doth now recall it,” long ago.His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walkedFor years beside me, and we two have talkedAs chosen friends together. Thus I knowTrouble and Sorrow are not near of kin.Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wearsUpon her brow the seal of many cares;But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within.She sits with Patience in perpetual calm,Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm.
Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sentHis angel Sorrow on my heart to layHer hand in benediction, and to say,“Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent,For He doth now recall it,” long ago.His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walkedFor years beside me, and we two have talkedAs chosen friends together. Thus I knowTrouble and Sorrow are not near of kin.Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wearsUpon her brow the seal of many cares;But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within.She sits with Patience in perpetual calm,Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm.
Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned,Put on your priestly robes to-day;Henceforth ye stand on holy ground,Where Love and Death hold equal sway.Lift up to Heaven each crested head,And raise your giant arms on high,And swear that o’er our slumbering deadYe will keep watch and ward for aye.For month by month, and year by year,While shine the stars, and rolls the sea,Our silent ones shall gather here,To rest beneath the greenwood tree.Here no rude sight nor sound shall breakThe calmness of their last, long sleep,And Earth and Heaven, for Love’s sweet sake,Shall o’er them ceaseless vigils keep.Our silent ones! Their very dustIs precious in our longing eyes;O, guard ye well the sacred trust,Till God’s own voice shall bid them rise!
Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned,Put on your priestly robes to-day;Henceforth ye stand on holy ground,Where Love and Death hold equal sway.Lift up to Heaven each crested head,And raise your giant arms on high,And swear that o’er our slumbering deadYe will keep watch and ward for aye.For month by month, and year by year,While shine the stars, and rolls the sea,Our silent ones shall gather here,To rest beneath the greenwood tree.Here no rude sight nor sound shall breakThe calmness of their last, long sleep,And Earth and Heaven, for Love’s sweet sake,Shall o’er them ceaseless vigils keep.Our silent ones! Their very dustIs precious in our longing eyes;O, guard ye well the sacred trust,Till God’s own voice shall bid them rise!
Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned,Put on your priestly robes to-day;Henceforth ye stand on holy ground,Where Love and Death hold equal sway.
Lift up to Heaven each crested head,And raise your giant arms on high,And swear that o’er our slumbering deadYe will keep watch and ward for aye.
For month by month, and year by year,While shine the stars, and rolls the sea,Our silent ones shall gather here,To rest beneath the greenwood tree.
Here no rude sight nor sound shall breakThe calmness of their last, long sleep,And Earth and Heaven, for Love’s sweet sake,Shall o’er them ceaseless vigils keep.
Our silent ones! Their very dustIs precious in our longing eyes;O, guard ye well the sacred trust,Till God’s own voice shall bid them rise!
But yesterday among us here,One with ourselves in hope and fear:Joying like us in little things,The sheen of gorgeous insect wings,The song of bird, the hum of bee,The white foam of the heaving sea.But yesterday your simplest speech,Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach;Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyesFound in your own no mysteries.Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew,The hopes that with your girlhood grew.But yesterday we dared to say,“’Twere better you should walk this wayOr that, dear child! Do thus or so;Older and wiser we, you know.”We gave you flowers and curled your hair,And brought new robes for you to wear.To-day how far away thou art!In all thy life we have no part.Hast thou a want? We know it not;Utterly parted from our lot,The veriest stranger is to theeAll those who loved thee best can be.Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries,Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes;Nor heed the tender words that flowFrom lips whose kisses thrilled thee soBut yesterday! To-day in vainWe wait for kisses back again.To-day no awful mystery hidThe dark and mazy past amidIs half so great as this that liesBeneath the lids of thy shut eyes,And in those frozen lips of stone,Impassive lips, that smile nor moan.But yesterday with loving careWe petted, praised thee, called thee fair;To-day, oppressed with awe, we standBefore that ring-unfettered hand,And scarcely dare to lift one tressIn mute and reverent caress.But yesterday with us. To-dayWhere thou art dwelling, who can say?In heaven? But where? Oh for some spellTo make thy tongue this secret tell!To break the silence strange and deep,That thy sealed lips so closely keep!
But yesterday among us here,One with ourselves in hope and fear:Joying like us in little things,The sheen of gorgeous insect wings,The song of bird, the hum of bee,The white foam of the heaving sea.But yesterday your simplest speech,Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach;Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyesFound in your own no mysteries.Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew,The hopes that with your girlhood grew.But yesterday we dared to say,“’Twere better you should walk this wayOr that, dear child! Do thus or so;Older and wiser we, you know.”We gave you flowers and curled your hair,And brought new robes for you to wear.To-day how far away thou art!In all thy life we have no part.Hast thou a want? We know it not;Utterly parted from our lot,The veriest stranger is to theeAll those who loved thee best can be.Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries,Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes;Nor heed the tender words that flowFrom lips whose kisses thrilled thee soBut yesterday! To-day in vainWe wait for kisses back again.To-day no awful mystery hidThe dark and mazy past amidIs half so great as this that liesBeneath the lids of thy shut eyes,And in those frozen lips of stone,Impassive lips, that smile nor moan.But yesterday with loving careWe petted, praised thee, called thee fair;To-day, oppressed with awe, we standBefore that ring-unfettered hand,And scarcely dare to lift one tressIn mute and reverent caress.But yesterday with us. To-dayWhere thou art dwelling, who can say?In heaven? But where? Oh for some spellTo make thy tongue this secret tell!To break the silence strange and deep,That thy sealed lips so closely keep!
But yesterday among us here,One with ourselves in hope and fear:Joying like us in little things,The sheen of gorgeous insect wings,The song of bird, the hum of bee,The white foam of the heaving sea.
But yesterday your simplest speech,Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach;Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyesFound in your own no mysteries.Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew,The hopes that with your girlhood grew.
But yesterday we dared to say,“’Twere better you should walk this wayOr that, dear child! Do thus or so;Older and wiser we, you know.”We gave you flowers and curled your hair,And brought new robes for you to wear.
To-day how far away thou art!In all thy life we have no part.Hast thou a want? We know it not;Utterly parted from our lot,The veriest stranger is to theeAll those who loved thee best can be.
Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries,Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes;Nor heed the tender words that flowFrom lips whose kisses thrilled thee soBut yesterday! To-day in vainWe wait for kisses back again.
To-day no awful mystery hidThe dark and mazy past amidIs half so great as this that liesBeneath the lids of thy shut eyes,And in those frozen lips of stone,Impassive lips, that smile nor moan.
But yesterday with loving careWe petted, praised thee, called thee fair;To-day, oppressed with awe, we standBefore that ring-unfettered hand,And scarcely dare to lift one tressIn mute and reverent caress.
But yesterday with us. To-dayWhere thou art dwelling, who can say?In heaven? But where? Oh for some spellTo make thy tongue this secret tell!To break the silence strange and deep,That thy sealed lips so closely keep!
No grand Cathedral’s vaulted spaceWhere, through the “dim, religious light,”Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown,We consecrate with song to-night;No stately temple lifting highIts dome against the starlit skies,Where lofty arch and glittering spireLike miracles of beauty rise.Yet here beneath this humbler roofWith reverent hearts and lips we come;Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail!Henceforth be these poor walls your home.Here speak to hearts that long have yearnedYour presence and your spells to know;Here touch the lips athirst to drinkWhere your perennial fountains flow.Here, where our glorious mountain-peaksSublimely pierce the ether blue,Lift ye our souls, and bid them riseIn aspirations grand and true!O Music, Art, and Science, hail!We greet you now with glad acclaims;Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening airWaits to re-echo with your names;Waits for your voices ringing clearAbove this weary, work-day world;Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise,While Error from her throne is hurled!
No grand Cathedral’s vaulted spaceWhere, through the “dim, religious light,”Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown,We consecrate with song to-night;No stately temple lifting highIts dome against the starlit skies,Where lofty arch and glittering spireLike miracles of beauty rise.Yet here beneath this humbler roofWith reverent hearts and lips we come;Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail!Henceforth be these poor walls your home.Here speak to hearts that long have yearnedYour presence and your spells to know;Here touch the lips athirst to drinkWhere your perennial fountains flow.Here, where our glorious mountain-peaksSublimely pierce the ether blue,Lift ye our souls, and bid them riseIn aspirations grand and true!O Music, Art, and Science, hail!We greet you now with glad acclaims;Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening airWaits to re-echo with your names;Waits for your voices ringing clearAbove this weary, work-day world;Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise,While Error from her throne is hurled!
No grand Cathedral’s vaulted spaceWhere, through the “dim, religious light,”Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown,We consecrate with song to-night;
No stately temple lifting highIts dome against the starlit skies,Where lofty arch and glittering spireLike miracles of beauty rise.
Yet here beneath this humbler roofWith reverent hearts and lips we come;Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail!Henceforth be these poor walls your home.
Here speak to hearts that long have yearnedYour presence and your spells to know;Here touch the lips athirst to drinkWhere your perennial fountains flow.
Here, where our glorious mountain-peaksSublimely pierce the ether blue,Lift ye our souls, and bid them riseIn aspirations grand and true!
O Music, Art, and Science, hail!We greet you now with glad acclaims;Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening airWaits to re-echo with your names;
Waits for your voices ringing clearAbove this weary, work-day world;Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise,While Error from her throne is hurled!
Wandering in the dewy twilightOf a golden summer day,When the mists upon the mountainsFlushed with purple splendor lay:When the sunlight kissed the hilltopsAnd the vales were hushed and dim,And from out the forest archesRose a holy vesper hymn—I lost something. Have you seen it,Children, ye who passed that way?Did you chance to find the treasureThat I lost that summer day?It was neither gold nor silver,Orient pearl nor jewel rare;Neither amethyst nor ruby,Nor an opal gleaming fair;’Twas no curious, quaint mosaicWrought by cunning master-hands,Nor a cameo where Hebe,Crowned with deathless beauty, stands.Yet have I lost something precious;Children, ye who passed that way—Tell me, have you found the treasureThat I lost one summer day?Then, you say, it was a casketFilled with India’s perfumes rare,Or a tiny flask of crystalMeet the rose’s breath to bear;Or a bird of wondrous plumage,With a voice of sweetest tone,That, escaping from my bosom,To the greenwood deep has flown.Ah! not these, I answer vainly;Children, ye who passed that way,Ye can never find the treasureThat I lost that summer day!You may call it bird or blossom;Name my treasure what you will;Here no more its song or fragranceShall my soul with rapture fill.But, thank God! our earthly lossesIn no darksome void are cast;Safely garnered, some to-morrowShall restore them all at last.Somewhere in the great hereafter,Children, ye who pass this way,I shall find again the treasureThat I lost one summer day!
Wandering in the dewy twilightOf a golden summer day,When the mists upon the mountainsFlushed with purple splendor lay:When the sunlight kissed the hilltopsAnd the vales were hushed and dim,And from out the forest archesRose a holy vesper hymn—I lost something. Have you seen it,Children, ye who passed that way?Did you chance to find the treasureThat I lost that summer day?It was neither gold nor silver,Orient pearl nor jewel rare;Neither amethyst nor ruby,Nor an opal gleaming fair;’Twas no curious, quaint mosaicWrought by cunning master-hands,Nor a cameo where Hebe,Crowned with deathless beauty, stands.Yet have I lost something precious;Children, ye who passed that way—Tell me, have you found the treasureThat I lost one summer day?Then, you say, it was a casketFilled with India’s perfumes rare,Or a tiny flask of crystalMeet the rose’s breath to bear;Or a bird of wondrous plumage,With a voice of sweetest tone,That, escaping from my bosom,To the greenwood deep has flown.Ah! not these, I answer vainly;Children, ye who passed that way,Ye can never find the treasureThat I lost that summer day!You may call it bird or blossom;Name my treasure what you will;Here no more its song or fragranceShall my soul with rapture fill.But, thank God! our earthly lossesIn no darksome void are cast;Safely garnered, some to-morrowShall restore them all at last.Somewhere in the great hereafter,Children, ye who pass this way,I shall find again the treasureThat I lost one summer day!
Wandering in the dewy twilightOf a golden summer day,When the mists upon the mountainsFlushed with purple splendor lay:When the sunlight kissed the hilltopsAnd the vales were hushed and dim,And from out the forest archesRose a holy vesper hymn—I lost something. Have you seen it,Children, ye who passed that way?Did you chance to find the treasureThat I lost that summer day?
It was neither gold nor silver,Orient pearl nor jewel rare;Neither amethyst nor ruby,Nor an opal gleaming fair;’Twas no curious, quaint mosaicWrought by cunning master-hands,Nor a cameo where Hebe,Crowned with deathless beauty, stands.Yet have I lost something precious;Children, ye who passed that way—Tell me, have you found the treasureThat I lost one summer day?
Then, you say, it was a casketFilled with India’s perfumes rare,Or a tiny flask of crystalMeet the rose’s breath to bear;Or a bird of wondrous plumage,With a voice of sweetest tone,That, escaping from my bosom,To the greenwood deep has flown.Ah! not these, I answer vainly;Children, ye who passed that way,Ye can never find the treasureThat I lost that summer day!
You may call it bird or blossom;Name my treasure what you will;Here no more its song or fragranceShall my soul with rapture fill.But, thank God! our earthly lossesIn no darksome void are cast;Safely garnered, some to-morrowShall restore them all at last.Somewhere in the great hereafter,Children, ye who pass this way,I shall find again the treasureThat I lost one summer day!
Once in your sight,As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light,So grew her soul,Yielding itself to your sweet control.Once if you spoke,Echoing strains in her heart awoke,Sending a thrillAll through its chambers sweet and still.Once if you said,“Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,”Ah! how the roseFlooded her forehead’s pale repose!Once if your lipDared the pure sweetness of hers to sip,Softly and meekDark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek!Once if your nameSome one but whispered, a sudden flameBurned on her cheek,Telling a story she would not speak!You do but waitAt a sepulchre’s sealed gate!Her love is dead,Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed.Why did it die?Ask of your soul the reason why!Question it well,And surely the secret it will tell.But if your heartEver again plays the lover’s part,Let this truth beBlent with the solemn mystery:Pure flame aspires;Downward flow not the altar fires;And skylarks soarUp where the earth-mists vex no more.Now loose your holdFrom her white garment’s spotless fold,And let her pass—While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!”
Once in your sight,As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light,So grew her soul,Yielding itself to your sweet control.Once if you spoke,Echoing strains in her heart awoke,Sending a thrillAll through its chambers sweet and still.Once if you said,“Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,”Ah! how the roseFlooded her forehead’s pale repose!Once if your lipDared the pure sweetness of hers to sip,Softly and meekDark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek!Once if your nameSome one but whispered, a sudden flameBurned on her cheek,Telling a story she would not speak!You do but waitAt a sepulchre’s sealed gate!Her love is dead,Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed.Why did it die?Ask of your soul the reason why!Question it well,And surely the secret it will tell.But if your heartEver again plays the lover’s part,Let this truth beBlent with the solemn mystery:Pure flame aspires;Downward flow not the altar fires;And skylarks soarUp where the earth-mists vex no more.Now loose your holdFrom her white garment’s spotless fold,And let her pass—While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!”
Once in your sight,As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light,So grew her soul,Yielding itself to your sweet control.
Once if you spoke,Echoing strains in her heart awoke,Sending a thrillAll through its chambers sweet and still.
Once if you said,“Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,”Ah! how the roseFlooded her forehead’s pale repose!
Once if your lipDared the pure sweetness of hers to sip,Softly and meekDark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek!
Once if your nameSome one but whispered, a sudden flameBurned on her cheek,Telling a story she would not speak!
You do but waitAt a sepulchre’s sealed gate!Her love is dead,Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed.
Why did it die?Ask of your soul the reason why!Question it well,And surely the secret it will tell.
But if your heartEver again plays the lover’s part,Let this truth beBlent with the solemn mystery:
Pure flame aspires;Downward flow not the altar fires;And skylarks soarUp where the earth-mists vex no more.
Now loose your holdFrom her white garment’s spotless fold,And let her pass—While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!”
O wondrous mystery of death!I yield me to thine awful sway,And with hushed heart and bated breathBow down before thy shrine to-day!But yesterday these pallid lipsBreathed reverently my humble name;These eyes now closed in drear eclipseBrightened with gratitude’s soft flame.These poor, pale hands were swift to doThe lowliest service I might ask;These palsied feet the long day throughMoved gladly to each wonted task.O faithful, patient, loving one,Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar,Canst bear the presence of The Son,And dwell where holy angels are?Dost thou not meekly bow thine head,And stand apart with humblest mien,Nor dare with softest step to treadThe ranks of shining Ones between?Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyesThe hem of some white robe to touch,While on thine own meek forehead liesThe crown of her who “lovèd much?”O vain imaginings! To-dayEarth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer.Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage payTo this Pale Wonder lying here!
O wondrous mystery of death!I yield me to thine awful sway,And with hushed heart and bated breathBow down before thy shrine to-day!But yesterday these pallid lipsBreathed reverently my humble name;These eyes now closed in drear eclipseBrightened with gratitude’s soft flame.These poor, pale hands were swift to doThe lowliest service I might ask;These palsied feet the long day throughMoved gladly to each wonted task.O faithful, patient, loving one,Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar,Canst bear the presence of The Son,And dwell where holy angels are?Dost thou not meekly bow thine head,And stand apart with humblest mien,Nor dare with softest step to treadThe ranks of shining Ones between?Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyesThe hem of some white robe to touch,While on thine own meek forehead liesThe crown of her who “lovèd much?”O vain imaginings! To-dayEarth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer.Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage payTo this Pale Wonder lying here!
O wondrous mystery of death!I yield me to thine awful sway,And with hushed heart and bated breathBow down before thy shrine to-day!
But yesterday these pallid lipsBreathed reverently my humble name;These eyes now closed in drear eclipseBrightened with gratitude’s soft flame.
These poor, pale hands were swift to doThe lowliest service I might ask;These palsied feet the long day throughMoved gladly to each wonted task.
O faithful, patient, loving one,Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar,Canst bear the presence of The Son,And dwell where holy angels are?
Dost thou not meekly bow thine head,And stand apart with humblest mien,Nor dare with softest step to treadThe ranks of shining Ones between?
Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyesThe hem of some white robe to touch,While on thine own meek forehead liesThe crown of her who “lovèd much?”
O vain imaginings! To-dayEarth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer.Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage payTo this Pale Wonder lying here!
I know not by what name to call thee, thouWho reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart!Thou who the lode-star of my being art,Thou before whom my soul delights to bow!What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear nameBetter than all the rest, that I may pourAll that the years have taught me of love’s loreIn one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame,And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me.Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar,And crowns less meet for love than reverence are,While both my heart gives joyfully to thee.Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest:I cannot tell what name befits thee best!
I know not by what name to call thee, thouWho reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart!Thou who the lode-star of my being art,Thou before whom my soul delights to bow!What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear nameBetter than all the rest, that I may pourAll that the years have taught me of love’s loreIn one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame,And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me.Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar,And crowns less meet for love than reverence are,While both my heart gives joyfully to thee.Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest:I cannot tell what name befits thee best!
I know not by what name to call thee, thouWho reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart!Thou who the lode-star of my being art,Thou before whom my soul delights to bow!What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear nameBetter than all the rest, that I may pourAll that the years have taught me of love’s loreIn one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame,And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me.Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar,And crowns less meet for love than reverence are,While both my heart gives joyfully to thee.Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest:I cannot tell what name befits thee best!
We were children together, you and I;We trod the same paths in days of old;Together we watched the sunset sky,And counted its bars of massive gold.And when from the dark horizon’s brimThe moon stole up with its silver rim,And slowly sailed through the fields of air,We thought there was nothing on earth so fair.You walk to-night where the jasmines grow,And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies;Where the spicy breezes softly blow,And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise.You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers,And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers;You pluck the acacia’s golden balls,And mark where the red pomegranate falls.I stand to-night on the breezy hill,Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore;The north star burneth clear and still,And the moonbeams silver your father’s door.I can see the hound as he lies asleep,In the shadow close by the old well-sweep,And hear the river’s murmuring flowAs we two heard it long ago.Do you think of the firs on the mountain-sideAs you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow?Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide?Of the yellow willows waving slow?Do you long to drink of the crystal spring,In the dell where the purple harebells swing?Would your pulses leap could you hear once moreThe sound of the flail on the threshing-floor?Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide,And the salt sea rolls our hearts between;And never again at eventideShall we two gaze on the same fair scene.But under the palm-trees wandering slow,You think of the spreading elms I know;And you deem our daisies fairer farThan the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are!
We were children together, you and I;We trod the same paths in days of old;Together we watched the sunset sky,And counted its bars of massive gold.And when from the dark horizon’s brimThe moon stole up with its silver rim,And slowly sailed through the fields of air,We thought there was nothing on earth so fair.You walk to-night where the jasmines grow,And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies;Where the spicy breezes softly blow,And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise.You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers,And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers;You pluck the acacia’s golden balls,And mark where the red pomegranate falls.I stand to-night on the breezy hill,Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore;The north star burneth clear and still,And the moonbeams silver your father’s door.I can see the hound as he lies asleep,In the shadow close by the old well-sweep,And hear the river’s murmuring flowAs we two heard it long ago.Do you think of the firs on the mountain-sideAs you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow?Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide?Of the yellow willows waving slow?Do you long to drink of the crystal spring,In the dell where the purple harebells swing?Would your pulses leap could you hear once moreThe sound of the flail on the threshing-floor?Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide,And the salt sea rolls our hearts between;And never again at eventideShall we two gaze on the same fair scene.But under the palm-trees wandering slow,You think of the spreading elms I know;And you deem our daisies fairer farThan the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are!
We were children together, you and I;We trod the same paths in days of old;Together we watched the sunset sky,And counted its bars of massive gold.And when from the dark horizon’s brimThe moon stole up with its silver rim,And slowly sailed through the fields of air,We thought there was nothing on earth so fair.
You walk to-night where the jasmines grow,And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies;Where the spicy breezes softly blow,And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise.You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers,And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers;You pluck the acacia’s golden balls,And mark where the red pomegranate falls.
I stand to-night on the breezy hill,Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore;The north star burneth clear and still,And the moonbeams silver your father’s door.I can see the hound as he lies asleep,In the shadow close by the old well-sweep,And hear the river’s murmuring flowAs we two heard it long ago.
Do you think of the firs on the mountain-sideAs you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow?Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide?Of the yellow willows waving slow?Do you long to drink of the crystal spring,In the dell where the purple harebells swing?Would your pulses leap could you hear once moreThe sound of the flail on the threshing-floor?
Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide,And the salt sea rolls our hearts between;And never again at eventideShall we two gaze on the same fair scene.But under the palm-trees wandering slow,You think of the spreading elms I know;And you deem our daisies fairer farThan the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are!
Night and darkness over all!Nature sleeps beneath a pall;Not a ray from moon or starsGlimmers through the cloudy bars;Huge and black the mountains standFrowning upon either hand,And the river, dark and deep,Gropes its way from steep to steep.Yonder tree, whose young leaves playedIn the sunshine and the shade,Stretches out its arms like oneSudden blindness hath undone.Pale and dim the rose-queen liesRobbed of all her gorgeous dyes,And the lily bendeth low,Mourner in a garb of woe.Never a shadow comes or goes,Never a gleam its glory throwsOver cottage or over hall—Darkness broodeth over all!
Night and darkness over all!Nature sleeps beneath a pall;Not a ray from moon or starsGlimmers through the cloudy bars;Huge and black the mountains standFrowning upon either hand,And the river, dark and deep,Gropes its way from steep to steep.Yonder tree, whose young leaves playedIn the sunshine and the shade,Stretches out its arms like oneSudden blindness hath undone.Pale and dim the rose-queen liesRobbed of all her gorgeous dyes,And the lily bendeth low,Mourner in a garb of woe.Never a shadow comes or goes,Never a gleam its glory throwsOver cottage or over hall—Darkness broodeth over all!
Night and darkness over all!Nature sleeps beneath a pall;Not a ray from moon or starsGlimmers through the cloudy bars;Huge and black the mountains standFrowning upon either hand,And the river, dark and deep,Gropes its way from steep to steep.Yonder tree, whose young leaves playedIn the sunshine and the shade,Stretches out its arms like oneSudden blindness hath undone.Pale and dim the rose-queen liesRobbed of all her gorgeous dyes,And the lily bendeth low,Mourner in a garb of woe.Never a shadow comes or goes,Never a gleam its glory throwsOver cottage or over hall—Darkness broodeth over all!
Lo! the glorious morning breaks!Nature from her sleep awakes,And, in purple pomp, the dayBids the darkness flee away.Crowned with light the mountains standRoyally on either hand,And the laughing waters runIn glad haste to meet the sun.Stately trees, exultant, raiseTheir proud heads in grateful praise;Flowers, dew-laden, everywherePour rich incense on the air,And the ascending vapors riseLike the smoke of sacrifice.Birds are trilling, bees are humming,Swift to greet the new day coming,And earth’s myriad voices singHymns of grateful welcoming.Bursting from night’s heavy thrall,Heaven’s own light is over all!
Lo! the glorious morning breaks!Nature from her sleep awakes,And, in purple pomp, the dayBids the darkness flee away.Crowned with light the mountains standRoyally on either hand,And the laughing waters runIn glad haste to meet the sun.Stately trees, exultant, raiseTheir proud heads in grateful praise;Flowers, dew-laden, everywherePour rich incense on the air,And the ascending vapors riseLike the smoke of sacrifice.Birds are trilling, bees are humming,Swift to greet the new day coming,And earth’s myriad voices singHymns of grateful welcoming.Bursting from night’s heavy thrall,Heaven’s own light is over all!
Lo! the glorious morning breaks!Nature from her sleep awakes,And, in purple pomp, the dayBids the darkness flee away.Crowned with light the mountains standRoyally on either hand,And the laughing waters runIn glad haste to meet the sun.Stately trees, exultant, raiseTheir proud heads in grateful praise;Flowers, dew-laden, everywherePour rich incense on the air,And the ascending vapors riseLike the smoke of sacrifice.Birds are trilling, bees are humming,Swift to greet the new day coming,And earth’s myriad voices singHymns of grateful welcoming.Bursting from night’s heavy thrall,Heaven’s own light is over all!
Agnes! Agnes! is it thusThou, at last, dost come to us?From the land of balm and bloom,Blandest airs and sweet perfume,Where the jasmine’s golden starsGlimmer soft through emerald bars,And the fragrant orange flowersFall to earth in silver showers,Agnes! Agnes!With thy pale hands on thy breast,Comest thou here to take thy rest?Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy graveLoud the winter winds will rave,And the snow fall fast around,Heaping high thy burial mound;Yet, within its soft embrace,Thy dear form and earnest face,Wrapt away from burning pain,Ne’er shall know one pang again.Agnes! Agnes!Nevermore shall anguish vex thee,Nevermore shall care perplex thee.Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! waitJust one moment at the gate,Ere your pure feet enter inWhere is neither pain nor sin.Thou art blest, but how shall weBear the pang of losing thee?List!we love thee!By that wordOnce thy heart of hearts was stirred.Agnes! Agnes!By that love we bid thee waitJust one moment at the gate!Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass onTo the heaven that thou hast won!By thy life of brave endeavor,Up the heights aspiring ever,Whence thy voice, like clarion clear,Rang out words of lofty cheer;By thy laboring not in vain,By thy martyrdom of pain,Our Saint Agnes—From our yearning sight pass onTo the rest that thou hast won!
Agnes! Agnes! is it thusThou, at last, dost come to us?From the land of balm and bloom,Blandest airs and sweet perfume,Where the jasmine’s golden starsGlimmer soft through emerald bars,And the fragrant orange flowersFall to earth in silver showers,Agnes! Agnes!With thy pale hands on thy breast,Comest thou here to take thy rest?Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy graveLoud the winter winds will rave,And the snow fall fast around,Heaping high thy burial mound;Yet, within its soft embrace,Thy dear form and earnest face,Wrapt away from burning pain,Ne’er shall know one pang again.Agnes! Agnes!Nevermore shall anguish vex thee,Nevermore shall care perplex thee.Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! waitJust one moment at the gate,Ere your pure feet enter inWhere is neither pain nor sin.Thou art blest, but how shall weBear the pang of losing thee?List!we love thee!By that wordOnce thy heart of hearts was stirred.Agnes! Agnes!By that love we bid thee waitJust one moment at the gate!Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass onTo the heaven that thou hast won!By thy life of brave endeavor,Up the heights aspiring ever,Whence thy voice, like clarion clear,Rang out words of lofty cheer;By thy laboring not in vain,By thy martyrdom of pain,Our Saint Agnes—From our yearning sight pass onTo the rest that thou hast won!
Agnes! Agnes! is it thusThou, at last, dost come to us?From the land of balm and bloom,Blandest airs and sweet perfume,Where the jasmine’s golden starsGlimmer soft through emerald bars,And the fragrant orange flowersFall to earth in silver showers,Agnes! Agnes!With thy pale hands on thy breast,Comest thou here to take thy rest?
Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy graveLoud the winter winds will rave,And the snow fall fast around,Heaping high thy burial mound;Yet, within its soft embrace,Thy dear form and earnest face,Wrapt away from burning pain,Ne’er shall know one pang again.Agnes! Agnes!Nevermore shall anguish vex thee,Nevermore shall care perplex thee.
Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! waitJust one moment at the gate,Ere your pure feet enter inWhere is neither pain nor sin.Thou art blest, but how shall weBear the pang of losing thee?List!we love thee!By that wordOnce thy heart of hearts was stirred.Agnes! Agnes!By that love we bid thee waitJust one moment at the gate!
Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass onTo the heaven that thou hast won!By thy life of brave endeavor,Up the heights aspiring ever,Whence thy voice, like clarion clear,Rang out words of lofty cheer;By thy laboring not in vain,By thy martyrdom of pain,Our Saint Agnes—From our yearning sight pass onTo the rest that thou hast won!
Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,Weary with struggling and with long unrest,Vext by remembrances of conflicts pastAnd by a host of present cares opprest,I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!Take thou the burden I have borne too long.Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!For life—for death. I cannot see the way;I blindly wander on to meet the night;The path grows steeper, and the dying daySoon with its shadows will shut out the light.Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tiredAs a young child that wearies of the road;And the far heights toward which I once aspiredHave lost the glory with which erst they glowed.Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;Into thy hands commit I all my way;Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;And in my death my sure support be thou;So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,And wake at morn before thy face to bow!
Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,Weary with struggling and with long unrest,Vext by remembrances of conflicts pastAnd by a host of present cares opprest,I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!Take thou the burden I have borne too long.Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!For life—for death. I cannot see the way;I blindly wander on to meet the night;The path grows steeper, and the dying daySoon with its shadows will shut out the light.Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tiredAs a young child that wearies of the road;And the far heights toward which I once aspiredHave lost the glory with which erst they glowed.Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;Into thy hands commit I all my way;Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;And in my death my sure support be thou;So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,And wake at morn before thy face to bow!
Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,Weary with struggling and with long unrest,Vext by remembrances of conflicts pastAnd by a host of present cares opprest,
I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!Take thou the burden I have borne too long.Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!
For life—for death. I cannot see the way;I blindly wander on to meet the night;The path grows steeper, and the dying daySoon with its shadows will shut out the light.
Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tiredAs a young child that wearies of the road;And the far heights toward which I once aspiredHave lost the glory with which erst they glowed.
Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;Into thy hands commit I all my way;Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.
Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;And in my death my sure support be thou;So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,And wake at morn before thy face to bow!
Once I said,Seeing two soft, starry eyesDarkly bright as midnight skies,—Eyes prophetic of the powerSure to be thy woman’s dower,When the years should crown thee queenOf the realm as yet unseen,—“Some time, sweet, those eyes shall makeLovers mad for their sweet sake!”
Once I said,Seeing two soft, starry eyesDarkly bright as midnight skies,—Eyes prophetic of the powerSure to be thy woman’s dower,When the years should crown thee queenOf the realm as yet unseen,—“Some time, sweet, those eyes shall makeLovers mad for their sweet sake!”
Once I said,Seeing two soft, starry eyesDarkly bright as midnight skies,—Eyes prophetic of the powerSure to be thy woman’s dower,When the years should crown thee queenOf the realm as yet unseen,—“Some time, sweet, those eyes shall makeLovers mad for their sweet sake!”
Once I said,Seeing tresses, golden-brown,In a bright shower falling downOver neck and bosom whiteAs an angel’s clad in light—Odorous tresses drooping lowO’er a forehead pure as snow,—“Some time, sweet, in thy soft hairLove shall set a shining snare!”
Once I said,Seeing tresses, golden-brown,In a bright shower falling downOver neck and bosom whiteAs an angel’s clad in light—Odorous tresses drooping lowO’er a forehead pure as snow,—“Some time, sweet, in thy soft hairLove shall set a shining snare!”
Once I said,Seeing tresses, golden-brown,In a bright shower falling downOver neck and bosom whiteAs an angel’s clad in light—Odorous tresses drooping lowO’er a forehead pure as snow,—“Some time, sweet, in thy soft hairLove shall set a shining snare!”
Once I said,Seeing lips whose crimson hueMocked the roses wet with dew,—Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,—Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,—Tender lips, whose smiling graceLit with splendor all the face,—“Sweet, for kiss of thine some dayMen will barter souls away!”
Once I said,Seeing lips whose crimson hueMocked the roses wet with dew,—Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,—Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,—Tender lips, whose smiling graceLit with splendor all the face,—“Sweet, for kiss of thine some dayMen will barter souls away!”
Once I said,Seeing lips whose crimson hueMocked the roses wet with dew,—Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,—Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,—Tender lips, whose smiling graceLit with splendor all the face,—“Sweet, for kiss of thine some dayMen will barter souls away!”
Idly said!God hath taken care of allJoy or pain that might befall!Lover’s lip shall never thrillAt thy kisses, soft and still;Lover’s heart shall never breakIn sore anguish for thy sake;Lover’s soul for thee shall knowNor love’s rapture, nor its woe;—All is said!
Idly said!God hath taken care of allJoy or pain that might befall!Lover’s lip shall never thrillAt thy kisses, soft and still;Lover’s heart shall never breakIn sore anguish for thy sake;Lover’s soul for thee shall knowNor love’s rapture, nor its woe;—All is said!
Idly said!God hath taken care of allJoy or pain that might befall!Lover’s lip shall never thrillAt thy kisses, soft and still;Lover’s heart shall never breakIn sore anguish for thy sake;Lover’s soul for thee shall knowNor love’s rapture, nor its woe;—All is said!
O skylark, soaring, soaring,Ere day is well begun,Thy full, glad song outpouringTo greet the rising sun,—So high, so high in heavenThy swift wing cleaves the blue,We sparrows in the hedgesCan scarcely follow you!O strong, unwearied singer!By summer winds caressed,Among the white clouds floatingWith sunshine on thy breast,We hear thy clear notes droppingIn showers of golden rain,A glad, triumphant musicThat hath no thought of pain!We twitter in the hedges;We chirp our little songs,Whose low, monotonous murmurTo homeliest life belongs;We perch in lowly places,We hop from bough to bough,While in the wide sky-spaces,On strong wing soarest thou!Yet we—we share the raptureAnd glory of thy flight—Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,—Thou spirit glad and bright!And ah! no sparrow knowethBut its low note may bePart of earth’s joy and gladnessThat finds full voice in thee!
O skylark, soaring, soaring,Ere day is well begun,Thy full, glad song outpouringTo greet the rising sun,—So high, so high in heavenThy swift wing cleaves the blue,We sparrows in the hedgesCan scarcely follow you!O strong, unwearied singer!By summer winds caressed,Among the white clouds floatingWith sunshine on thy breast,We hear thy clear notes droppingIn showers of golden rain,A glad, triumphant musicThat hath no thought of pain!We twitter in the hedges;We chirp our little songs,Whose low, monotonous murmurTo homeliest life belongs;We perch in lowly places,We hop from bough to bough,While in the wide sky-spaces,On strong wing soarest thou!Yet we—we share the raptureAnd glory of thy flight—Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,—Thou spirit glad and bright!And ah! no sparrow knowethBut its low note may bePart of earth’s joy and gladnessThat finds full voice in thee!
O skylark, soaring, soaring,Ere day is well begun,Thy full, glad song outpouringTo greet the rising sun,—So high, so high in heavenThy swift wing cleaves the blue,We sparrows in the hedgesCan scarcely follow you!
O strong, unwearied singer!By summer winds caressed,Among the white clouds floatingWith sunshine on thy breast,We hear thy clear notes droppingIn showers of golden rain,A glad, triumphant musicThat hath no thought of pain!
We twitter in the hedges;We chirp our little songs,Whose low, monotonous murmurTo homeliest life belongs;We perch in lowly places,We hop from bough to bough,While in the wide sky-spaces,On strong wing soarest thou!
Yet we—we share the raptureAnd glory of thy flight—Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,—Thou spirit glad and bright!And ah! no sparrow knowethBut its low note may bePart of earth’s joy and gladnessThat finds full voice in thee!
“The great bell of St. Paul’s, whichonly sounds when the King is dead.”
Toll, toll, thou solemn bell!A royal head lies low,And mourners through the palace hallsSlowly and sadly go.Lift up thine awful voice,Thou, silent for so long!Say that a monarch’s soul has passedTo join the shadowy throng.Toll yet again, thou bell!Mutely thine iron tongue,Prisoned within yon lofty tower,For many a year has hung.But now its mournful pealStartles a nation’s ear,And swells from listening shore to shore,That the whole world may hear.A whisper from the pastBlends with each solemn toneThat from those brazen lips of thineUpon the air is thrown.Never had trumpet’s peal,On clarion sounding shrill,Such power as that deep undertoneThe listener’s heart to thrill.Come, tell us tales, thou bell,Of those of old renown,Those sturdy warrior kings who foughtFor sceptre and for crown.Tell of the lion-heartsWhose pulses moved the world;Whose banners flew so swift and far,O’er land and sea unfurled!From out the buried years,From many a vaulted tomb,Whence neither pomp nor power could chaseThe dim, sepulchral gloom,Lo, now, a pale, proud line,They glide before our eyes!—Art thou a wizard, mighty bell,To bid the dead arise?But toll, toll on, thou bell!Toll for the royal dead;Toll—for the hand now sceptreless;Toll—for the crownless head;Toll—for the human heartWith all its loves and woes;Toll—for the soul that passes nowUnto its long repose!
Toll, toll, thou solemn bell!A royal head lies low,And mourners through the palace hallsSlowly and sadly go.Lift up thine awful voice,Thou, silent for so long!Say that a monarch’s soul has passedTo join the shadowy throng.Toll yet again, thou bell!Mutely thine iron tongue,Prisoned within yon lofty tower,For many a year has hung.But now its mournful pealStartles a nation’s ear,And swells from listening shore to shore,That the whole world may hear.A whisper from the pastBlends with each solemn toneThat from those brazen lips of thineUpon the air is thrown.Never had trumpet’s peal,On clarion sounding shrill,Such power as that deep undertoneThe listener’s heart to thrill.Come, tell us tales, thou bell,Of those of old renown,Those sturdy warrior kings who foughtFor sceptre and for crown.Tell of the lion-heartsWhose pulses moved the world;Whose banners flew so swift and far,O’er land and sea unfurled!From out the buried years,From many a vaulted tomb,Whence neither pomp nor power could chaseThe dim, sepulchral gloom,Lo, now, a pale, proud line,They glide before our eyes!—Art thou a wizard, mighty bell,To bid the dead arise?But toll, toll on, thou bell!Toll for the royal dead;Toll—for the hand now sceptreless;Toll—for the crownless head;Toll—for the human heartWith all its loves and woes;Toll—for the soul that passes nowUnto its long repose!
Toll, toll, thou solemn bell!A royal head lies low,And mourners through the palace hallsSlowly and sadly go.Lift up thine awful voice,Thou, silent for so long!Say that a monarch’s soul has passedTo join the shadowy throng.
Toll yet again, thou bell!Mutely thine iron tongue,Prisoned within yon lofty tower,For many a year has hung.But now its mournful pealStartles a nation’s ear,And swells from listening shore to shore,That the whole world may hear.
A whisper from the pastBlends with each solemn toneThat from those brazen lips of thineUpon the air is thrown.Never had trumpet’s peal,On clarion sounding shrill,Such power as that deep undertoneThe listener’s heart to thrill.
Come, tell us tales, thou bell,Of those of old renown,Those sturdy warrior kings who foughtFor sceptre and for crown.Tell of the lion-heartsWhose pulses moved the world;Whose banners flew so swift and far,O’er land and sea unfurled!
From out the buried years,From many a vaulted tomb,Whence neither pomp nor power could chaseThe dim, sepulchral gloom,Lo, now, a pale, proud line,They glide before our eyes!—Art thou a wizard, mighty bell,To bid the dead arise?
But toll, toll on, thou bell!Toll for the royal dead;Toll—for the hand now sceptreless;Toll—for the crownless head;Toll—for the human heartWith all its loves and woes;Toll—for the soul that passes nowUnto its long repose!
Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night,Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright;And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow,Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old,And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold;My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two,And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do.We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then,A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men;And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe,With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child!We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiledOn the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free,And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea.But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise,And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies;I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began,Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran.I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray,And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray;Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all;There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small!You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes,Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise;Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray,That an undivided people rule America to-day.We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away,The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay;’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know,Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night;The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright;At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade,And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid.But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey,And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say;So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask,But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task.We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few;We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too;And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay,Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day.We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,—From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,—Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go,With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon,The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune,And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high,Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky.Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave,And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave;So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer,And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air.Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea!We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free!Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast,As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last!’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book,Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look;And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,—And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead!Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,—Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold;And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds blow,Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.
Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night,Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright;And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow,Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old,And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold;My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two,And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do.We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then,A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men;And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe,With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child!We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiledOn the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free,And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea.But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise,And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies;I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began,Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran.I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray,And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray;Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all;There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small!You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes,Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise;Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray,That an undivided people rule America to-day.We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away,The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay;’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know,Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night;The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright;At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade,And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid.But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey,And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say;So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask,But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task.We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few;We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too;And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay,Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day.We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,—From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,—Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go,With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon,The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune,And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high,Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky.Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave,And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave;So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer,And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air.Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea!We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free!Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast,As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last!’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book,Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look;And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,—And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead!Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,—Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold;And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds blow,Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.
Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night,Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright;And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow,Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.
I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old,And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold;My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two,And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do.
We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then,A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men;And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe,With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.
Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child!We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiledOn the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free,And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea.
But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise,And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies;I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began,Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran.
I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray,And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray;Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all;There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small!
You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes,Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise;Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray,That an undivided people rule America to-day.
We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away,The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay;’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know,Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.
Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night;The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright;At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade,And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid.
But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey,And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say;So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask,But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task.
We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few;We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too;And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay,Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day.
We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,—From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,—Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go,With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.
I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon,The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune,And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high,Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky.
Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave,And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave;So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer,And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air.
Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea!We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free!Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast,As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last!
’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book,Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look;And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,—And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead!
Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,—Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold;And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds blow,Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.
From the fierce conflict and the deadly frayA patriot hero comes to us this day.Greet him with music and with loud acclaim,And let our hills re-echo with his name.Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed,Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head.Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout,Upon the summer air, ring gayly out,To hail the hero, who from fierce affrayAnd deadly conflict comes to us this day.Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears,And wordless sorrow on each face appears.And for glad music, jubilant and clear,The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.Woe tous, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave,That we have naught to give thee but a grave.Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow,Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,—“Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee,And sadly cry, how long must these things be?How long must noble blood be poured like rain,Flooding our land from mountain unto main?How long from desolated hearths must riseThe smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice?Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,—Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?Is it for naught that they have drunken upThe very dregs of this most bitter cup?How long? how long? O God! our cause is just,And in Thee only do we put our trust.As Thou didst guide the Israelites of oldThrough the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall beFor evermore, the land where all are free!Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath,As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death!God give thy ashes undisturbed reposeWhere drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes;God take thy spirit to eternal rest,And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest!
From the fierce conflict and the deadly frayA patriot hero comes to us this day.Greet him with music and with loud acclaim,And let our hills re-echo with his name.Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed,Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head.Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout,Upon the summer air, ring gayly out,To hail the hero, who from fierce affrayAnd deadly conflict comes to us this day.Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears,And wordless sorrow on each face appears.And for glad music, jubilant and clear,The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.Woe tous, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave,That we have naught to give thee but a grave.Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow,Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,—“Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee,And sadly cry, how long must these things be?How long must noble blood be poured like rain,Flooding our land from mountain unto main?How long from desolated hearths must riseThe smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice?Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,—Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?Is it for naught that they have drunken upThe very dregs of this most bitter cup?How long? how long? O God! our cause is just,And in Thee only do we put our trust.As Thou didst guide the Israelites of oldThrough the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall beFor evermore, the land where all are free!Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath,As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death!God give thy ashes undisturbed reposeWhere drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes;God take thy spirit to eternal rest,And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest!
From the fierce conflict and the deadly frayA patriot hero comes to us this day.
Greet him with music and with loud acclaim,And let our hills re-echo with his name.
Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed,Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head.
Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout,Upon the summer air, ring gayly out,
To hail the hero, who from fierce affrayAnd deadly conflict comes to us this day.
Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears,And wordless sorrow on each face appears.
And for glad music, jubilant and clear,The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.
Woe tous, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave,That we have naught to give thee but a grave.
Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow,Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.
Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,—“Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”
O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee,And sadly cry, how long must these things be?
How long must noble blood be poured like rain,Flooding our land from mountain unto main?
How long from desolated hearths must riseThe smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice?
Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,—Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?
Is it for naught that they have drunken upThe very dregs of this most bitter cup?
How long? how long? O God! our cause is just,And in Thee only do we put our trust.
As Thou didst guide the Israelites of oldThrough the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,
Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall beFor evermore, the land where all are free!
Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath,As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death!
God give thy ashes undisturbed reposeWhere drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes;
God take thy spirit to eternal rest,And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest!
How beautiful was earth that day!The far blue sky had not a cloud;The river rippled on its way,Singing sweet songs aloud.The delicate beauty of the springPervaded all the murmuring air;It touched with grace the meanest thingAnd made it very fair.The blithe birds darted to and fro,The bees were humming round the hive,So happy in that radiant glow!So glad to be alive!And I? My heart was calmly blest.I knew afar the war-cloud rolledLurid and dark, in fierce unrest,Laden with woes untold.But on that day my fears were stilled;The very air I breathed was joy;The rest and peace my soul that filledHad nothing of alloy.I took the flower he loved the best,The arbutus,—fairest child of May,—And with its perfume half oppressed,Twined many a lovely sprayAbout his picture on the wall;His eyes were on me all the while,And when I had arranged them allI thought he seemed to smile.O Christ, be pitiful! That hourSaw him fall bleeding on the sod;And while I toyed with leaf and flowerHis soul went up to God!For him one pang—and then a crown;For him the laurels heroes wear;For him a name whose long renownAges shall onward bear.For me the cross without the crown;For me the drear and lonely life;O God! My sun, not his, went downOn that red field of strife.
How beautiful was earth that day!The far blue sky had not a cloud;The river rippled on its way,Singing sweet songs aloud.The delicate beauty of the springPervaded all the murmuring air;It touched with grace the meanest thingAnd made it very fair.The blithe birds darted to and fro,The bees were humming round the hive,So happy in that radiant glow!So glad to be alive!And I? My heart was calmly blest.I knew afar the war-cloud rolledLurid and dark, in fierce unrest,Laden with woes untold.But on that day my fears were stilled;The very air I breathed was joy;The rest and peace my soul that filledHad nothing of alloy.I took the flower he loved the best,The arbutus,—fairest child of May,—And with its perfume half oppressed,Twined many a lovely sprayAbout his picture on the wall;His eyes were on me all the while,And when I had arranged them allI thought he seemed to smile.O Christ, be pitiful! That hourSaw him fall bleeding on the sod;And while I toyed with leaf and flowerHis soul went up to God!For him one pang—and then a crown;For him the laurels heroes wear;For him a name whose long renownAges shall onward bear.For me the cross without the crown;For me the drear and lonely life;O God! My sun, not his, went downOn that red field of strife.
How beautiful was earth that day!The far blue sky had not a cloud;The river rippled on its way,Singing sweet songs aloud.
The delicate beauty of the springPervaded all the murmuring air;It touched with grace the meanest thingAnd made it very fair.
The blithe birds darted to and fro,The bees were humming round the hive,So happy in that radiant glow!So glad to be alive!
And I? My heart was calmly blest.I knew afar the war-cloud rolledLurid and dark, in fierce unrest,Laden with woes untold.
But on that day my fears were stilled;The very air I breathed was joy;The rest and peace my soul that filledHad nothing of alloy.
I took the flower he loved the best,The arbutus,—fairest child of May,—And with its perfume half oppressed,Twined many a lovely spray
About his picture on the wall;His eyes were on me all the while,And when I had arranged them allI thought he seemed to smile.
O Christ, be pitiful! That hourSaw him fall bleeding on the sod;And while I toyed with leaf and flowerHis soul went up to God!
For him one pang—and then a crown;For him the laurels heroes wear;For him a name whose long renownAges shall onward bear.
For me the cross without the crown;For me the drear and lonely life;O God! My sun, not his, went downOn that red field of strife.
A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamedBy weary march and battle stroke;’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch,The wounded veteran spoke,—“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill!A hero every inch was he,Though scarcely larger than the childYou hold, sir, on your knee.Some mother’s darling! On that fieldHe seemed so strangely out of place,With his pure brow, his shining hair,His sweet, unconscious grace.But not a bearded warrior thereWatched with a more undaunted eyeThe blackness of the battle-cloud,As the fierce storm rose high.That morn—ah! what a morn was that!—We thought to send him to the rear;We loved the lad—and love, you know,Is near akin to fear.We knew that many a gallant soulMust pass away in one long sigh,Ere nightfall. On that bloody field,’Twas not for boys to die.But he—could you have seen him then,As, with his blue eyes full of fire,He poured forth tears and pleadings, halfOf shame and half of ire!‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried;‘I love yon flag as well as you!I did not join your ranks to runWhen there is work to do!I did not come to beat my drumOnly upon some gala day.’The colonel shook his head, but said,‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’Ah! then his tears were quickly dried,A few glad words he strove to say;But there was little time to talk,And hardly time to pray.For bitter, bitter was the strifeThat raged that day on Malvern Hill;Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay,Ere that wild storm grew still.At length we charged. My very heartSank down within me, cold and dumb,When to the front, and far ahead,Rushed Charley with his drum!Above the cannon’s thundering boom,The din and shriek of shot and shell,We heard its clear peal rolling outRight gallantly and well.A moment’s awful waiting! ThenThere came a sullen, angry roar,—O God! An empty void remainedWhere Charley stood before.What did we then? With souls on fireWe swept upon the advancing foe,And bade good angels guard the dustO‘er which no tears might flow!”
A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamedBy weary march and battle stroke;’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch,The wounded veteran spoke,—“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill!A hero every inch was he,Though scarcely larger than the childYou hold, sir, on your knee.Some mother’s darling! On that fieldHe seemed so strangely out of place,With his pure brow, his shining hair,His sweet, unconscious grace.But not a bearded warrior thereWatched with a more undaunted eyeThe blackness of the battle-cloud,As the fierce storm rose high.That morn—ah! what a morn was that!—We thought to send him to the rear;We loved the lad—and love, you know,Is near akin to fear.We knew that many a gallant soulMust pass away in one long sigh,Ere nightfall. On that bloody field,’Twas not for boys to die.But he—could you have seen him then,As, with his blue eyes full of fire,He poured forth tears and pleadings, halfOf shame and half of ire!‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried;‘I love yon flag as well as you!I did not join your ranks to runWhen there is work to do!I did not come to beat my drumOnly upon some gala day.’The colonel shook his head, but said,‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’Ah! then his tears were quickly dried,A few glad words he strove to say;But there was little time to talk,And hardly time to pray.For bitter, bitter was the strifeThat raged that day on Malvern Hill;Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay,Ere that wild storm grew still.At length we charged. My very heartSank down within me, cold and dumb,When to the front, and far ahead,Rushed Charley with his drum!Above the cannon’s thundering boom,The din and shriek of shot and shell,We heard its clear peal rolling outRight gallantly and well.A moment’s awful waiting! ThenThere came a sullen, angry roar,—O God! An empty void remainedWhere Charley stood before.What did we then? With souls on fireWe swept upon the advancing foe,And bade good angels guard the dustO‘er which no tears might flow!”
A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamedBy weary march and battle stroke;’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch,The wounded veteran spoke,—
“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill!A hero every inch was he,Though scarcely larger than the childYou hold, sir, on your knee.
Some mother’s darling! On that fieldHe seemed so strangely out of place,With his pure brow, his shining hair,His sweet, unconscious grace.
But not a bearded warrior thereWatched with a more undaunted eyeThe blackness of the battle-cloud,As the fierce storm rose high.
That morn—ah! what a morn was that!—We thought to send him to the rear;We loved the lad—and love, you know,Is near akin to fear.
We knew that many a gallant soulMust pass away in one long sigh,Ere nightfall. On that bloody field,’Twas not for boys to die.
But he—could you have seen him then,As, with his blue eyes full of fire,He poured forth tears and pleadings, halfOf shame and half of ire!
‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried;‘I love yon flag as well as you!I did not join your ranks to runWhen there is work to do!
I did not come to beat my drumOnly upon some gala day.’The colonel shook his head, but said,‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’
Ah! then his tears were quickly dried,A few glad words he strove to say;But there was little time to talk,And hardly time to pray.
For bitter, bitter was the strifeThat raged that day on Malvern Hill;Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay,Ere that wild storm grew still.
At length we charged. My very heartSank down within me, cold and dumb,When to the front, and far ahead,Rushed Charley with his drum!
Above the cannon’s thundering boom,The din and shriek of shot and shell,We heard its clear peal rolling outRight gallantly and well.
A moment’s awful waiting! ThenThere came a sullen, angry roar,—O God! An empty void remainedWhere Charley stood before.
What did we then? With souls on fireWe swept upon the advancing foe,And bade good angels guard the dustO‘er which no tears might flow!”