Graceful and lithe and tall,It stands by the garden wall,In the flush of its pink-white bloomElate with its own perfume.Tossing its young bright headIn the first glad joy of May,While its singing leaves sing backTo the bird on the dancing spray.“I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it criesTo the winds and the laughing skies.Ho! for the gay young apple-treeThat stands by the garden wall!Sturdy and broad and tall,Over the garden wallIt spreads its branches wide—A bower on either side.For the bending boughs hang low;And with shouts and gay turmoilThe children gather like beesTo garner the golden spoil;While the smiling mother sings,“Rejoice for the gift it brings!Ho! for the laden apple-treeThat stands by our garden wall!”The strong swift years fly past,Each swifter than the last;And the tree by the garden wallSees joy and grief befall.Still from the spreading boughsSome golden apples swing;But the children come no moreFor the autumn harvesting.The tangled grass lies deepWhere the long path used to creep;Yet ho! for the brave old apple-treeThat leans o’er the crumbling wall!Now generations pass,Like shadows on the grass.What is there that remainsFor all their toil and pains?A little hollow placeWhere once a hearthstone lay;An empty, silent spaceWhence life hath gone away;Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,Some fennel, and a clump of rue,And this one gnarled old apple-treeWhere once was the garden wall!
Graceful and lithe and tall,It stands by the garden wall,In the flush of its pink-white bloomElate with its own perfume.Tossing its young bright headIn the first glad joy of May,While its singing leaves sing backTo the bird on the dancing spray.“I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it criesTo the winds and the laughing skies.Ho! for the gay young apple-treeThat stands by the garden wall!Sturdy and broad and tall,Over the garden wallIt spreads its branches wide—A bower on either side.For the bending boughs hang low;And with shouts and gay turmoilThe children gather like beesTo garner the golden spoil;While the smiling mother sings,“Rejoice for the gift it brings!Ho! for the laden apple-treeThat stands by our garden wall!”The strong swift years fly past,Each swifter than the last;And the tree by the garden wallSees joy and grief befall.Still from the spreading boughsSome golden apples swing;But the children come no moreFor the autumn harvesting.The tangled grass lies deepWhere the long path used to creep;Yet ho! for the brave old apple-treeThat leans o’er the crumbling wall!Now generations pass,Like shadows on the grass.What is there that remainsFor all their toil and pains?A little hollow placeWhere once a hearthstone lay;An empty, silent spaceWhence life hath gone away;Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,Some fennel, and a clump of rue,And this one gnarled old apple-treeWhere once was the garden wall!
Graceful and lithe and tall,It stands by the garden wall,In the flush of its pink-white bloomElate with its own perfume.Tossing its young bright headIn the first glad joy of May,While its singing leaves sing backTo the bird on the dancing spray.“I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it criesTo the winds and the laughing skies.Ho! for the gay young apple-treeThat stands by the garden wall!
Sturdy and broad and tall,Over the garden wallIt spreads its branches wide—A bower on either side.For the bending boughs hang low;And with shouts and gay turmoilThe children gather like beesTo garner the golden spoil;While the smiling mother sings,“Rejoice for the gift it brings!Ho! for the laden apple-treeThat stands by our garden wall!”
The strong swift years fly past,Each swifter than the last;And the tree by the garden wallSees joy and grief befall.Still from the spreading boughsSome golden apples swing;But the children come no moreFor the autumn harvesting.The tangled grass lies deepWhere the long path used to creep;Yet ho! for the brave old apple-treeThat leans o’er the crumbling wall!
Now generations pass,Like shadows on the grass.What is there that remainsFor all their toil and pains?A little hollow placeWhere once a hearthstone lay;An empty, silent spaceWhence life hath gone away;Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,Some fennel, and a clump of rue,And this one gnarled old apple-treeWhere once was the garden wall!
How dost thou come, O Comforter?In heavenly glory dressed,Down floating from the far-off skies,With lilies on thy breast?With silver lilies on thy breast,And in thy falling hair,Bringing the bloom and balm of heavenTo this dim, earthly air?How dost thou come, O Comforter?With strange, unearthly light,And mystic splendor aureoled,In trances of the night?In lone, mysterious silences,In visions rapt and high,And holy dreams, like pathways setBetwixt the earth and sky?Not thus alone, O Comforter!Not thus, thou Guest Divine,Whose presence turns our stones to bread,Our water into wine!Not always thus—for thou dost stoopTo our poor, common clay,Too faint for saintly ecstasy,Too impotent to pray.How does God send the Comforter?Ofttimes through byways dim;Not always by the beaten pathOf sacrament and hymn;Not always through the gates of prayer,Or penitential psalm,Or sacred rite, or holy day,Or incense, breathing balm.How does God send the Comforter?Perchance through faith intense;Perchance through humblest avenuesOf sight, or sound, or sense.Haply in childhood’s laughing voiceShall breathe the voice divine,And tender hands of earthly lovePour for thee heavenly wine!How will God send the Comforter?Thou knowest not, nor I!His ways are countless as the starsHis hand hath hung on high.His roses bring their fragrant balm,His twilight hush its peace,Morning its splendor, night its calm,To give thy pain surcease!
How dost thou come, O Comforter?In heavenly glory dressed,Down floating from the far-off skies,With lilies on thy breast?With silver lilies on thy breast,And in thy falling hair,Bringing the bloom and balm of heavenTo this dim, earthly air?How dost thou come, O Comforter?With strange, unearthly light,And mystic splendor aureoled,In trances of the night?In lone, mysterious silences,In visions rapt and high,And holy dreams, like pathways setBetwixt the earth and sky?Not thus alone, O Comforter!Not thus, thou Guest Divine,Whose presence turns our stones to bread,Our water into wine!Not always thus—for thou dost stoopTo our poor, common clay,Too faint for saintly ecstasy,Too impotent to pray.How does God send the Comforter?Ofttimes through byways dim;Not always by the beaten pathOf sacrament and hymn;Not always through the gates of prayer,Or penitential psalm,Or sacred rite, or holy day,Or incense, breathing balm.How does God send the Comforter?Perchance through faith intense;Perchance through humblest avenuesOf sight, or sound, or sense.Haply in childhood’s laughing voiceShall breathe the voice divine,And tender hands of earthly lovePour for thee heavenly wine!How will God send the Comforter?Thou knowest not, nor I!His ways are countless as the starsHis hand hath hung on high.His roses bring their fragrant balm,His twilight hush its peace,Morning its splendor, night its calm,To give thy pain surcease!
How dost thou come, O Comforter?In heavenly glory dressed,Down floating from the far-off skies,With lilies on thy breast?With silver lilies on thy breast,And in thy falling hair,Bringing the bloom and balm of heavenTo this dim, earthly air?
How dost thou come, O Comforter?With strange, unearthly light,And mystic splendor aureoled,In trances of the night?In lone, mysterious silences,In visions rapt and high,And holy dreams, like pathways setBetwixt the earth and sky?
Not thus alone, O Comforter!Not thus, thou Guest Divine,Whose presence turns our stones to bread,Our water into wine!Not always thus—for thou dost stoopTo our poor, common clay,Too faint for saintly ecstasy,Too impotent to pray.
How does God send the Comforter?Ofttimes through byways dim;Not always by the beaten pathOf sacrament and hymn;Not always through the gates of prayer,Or penitential psalm,Or sacred rite, or holy day,Or incense, breathing balm.
How does God send the Comforter?Perchance through faith intense;Perchance through humblest avenuesOf sight, or sound, or sense.Haply in childhood’s laughing voiceShall breathe the voice divine,And tender hands of earthly lovePour for thee heavenly wine!
How will God send the Comforter?Thou knowest not, nor I!His ways are countless as the starsHis hand hath hung on high.His roses bring their fragrant balm,His twilight hush its peace,Morning its splendor, night its calm,To give thy pain surcease!
A voice from out of the northern sky:“On the wings of the limitless winds I fly,Swifter than thought over mountain and vale,City and moorland, desert and dale!From the north to the south, from the east to the west,I hasten regardless of slumber or rest;Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fastAs I on the wings of the wintry blast!The wondering stars look out to seeWho he that flieth so fast may be,And their bright eyes follow my earthward trackBy the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack.For I have treasures for high and for low:Rubies that burn like the sunset glow;Diamond rays for the crownèd queen;For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.I enter the castle with noiseless feet—The air is silent and soft and sweet;And I lavish my beautiful tokens there—Fairings to make the fair more fair!I enter the cottage of want and woe—The candle is out, and the fire burns low;But the sleepers smile in a happy dreamAs I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam.There’s never a home so low, no doubt,But I in my flight can find it out;Nor a hut so hidden but I can seeThe shadow cast by the lone roof-tree!There’s never a home so proud and highThat I am constrained to pass it by,Nor a heart so happy it may not beHappier still when blessed by me!What is my name? Ah, who can tell,Though in every land ’tis a magic spell!Men call me that, and they call me this;Yet the different names are the same, I wis!Gift-bearer to all the world am I,Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly;But the name I bear in the courts above,My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”
A voice from out of the northern sky:“On the wings of the limitless winds I fly,Swifter than thought over mountain and vale,City and moorland, desert and dale!From the north to the south, from the east to the west,I hasten regardless of slumber or rest;Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fastAs I on the wings of the wintry blast!The wondering stars look out to seeWho he that flieth so fast may be,And their bright eyes follow my earthward trackBy the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack.For I have treasures for high and for low:Rubies that burn like the sunset glow;Diamond rays for the crownèd queen;For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.I enter the castle with noiseless feet—The air is silent and soft and sweet;And I lavish my beautiful tokens there—Fairings to make the fair more fair!I enter the cottage of want and woe—The candle is out, and the fire burns low;But the sleepers smile in a happy dreamAs I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam.There’s never a home so low, no doubt,But I in my flight can find it out;Nor a hut so hidden but I can seeThe shadow cast by the lone roof-tree!There’s never a home so proud and highThat I am constrained to pass it by,Nor a heart so happy it may not beHappier still when blessed by me!What is my name? Ah, who can tell,Though in every land ’tis a magic spell!Men call me that, and they call me this;Yet the different names are the same, I wis!Gift-bearer to all the world am I,Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly;But the name I bear in the courts above,My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”
A voice from out of the northern sky:“On the wings of the limitless winds I fly,Swifter than thought over mountain and vale,City and moorland, desert and dale!From the north to the south, from the east to the west,I hasten regardless of slumber or rest;Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fastAs I on the wings of the wintry blast!
The wondering stars look out to seeWho he that flieth so fast may be,And their bright eyes follow my earthward trackBy the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack.For I have treasures for high and for low:Rubies that burn like the sunset glow;Diamond rays for the crownèd queen;For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.
I enter the castle with noiseless feet—The air is silent and soft and sweet;And I lavish my beautiful tokens there—Fairings to make the fair more fair!I enter the cottage of want and woe—The candle is out, and the fire burns low;But the sleepers smile in a happy dreamAs I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam.
There’s never a home so low, no doubt,But I in my flight can find it out;Nor a hut so hidden but I can seeThe shadow cast by the lone roof-tree!There’s never a home so proud and highThat I am constrained to pass it by,Nor a heart so happy it may not beHappier still when blessed by me!
What is my name? Ah, who can tell,Though in every land ’tis a magic spell!Men call me that, and they call me this;Yet the different names are the same, I wis!Gift-bearer to all the world am I,Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly;But the name I bear in the courts above,My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”
Where the far skies soared clear and brightFrom mountain height to mountain height,In the heart of a forest old and gray,Castleton slept one Sabbath day—Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”Hark to the sound of the fife and drum!For up from the south two hundred men—Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,While the deep woods rang with their rallying cryOf “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”Swept into the town with a martial tread,Ethan Allen marching ahead!Next day the village was all astirWith unwonted tumult and hurry. There wereGatherings here and gatherings there,A feverish heat in the very air,The ominous sound of tramping feet,And eager groups in the dusty street.To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach(Idle it stood, and its master away);Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,First in the fight and first in the breach,And first in work where a man should be.“I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”So he wrought away till the sun went down,And silence fell on the turbulent town;And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,A square of light on the sandy road.Then over the threshold a shadow fell,And he heard a voice that he knew right well.It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knewWhere the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!But listen! more arduous work than this,Lying in wait for someone is;And tempering blades is only playTo the task I set for him this day—Or this night, rather.” A grim smile playedO’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed.“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;“What may this wonderful task-work be?”“To go by the light of the evening starOn an urgent errand, swift and far—From town to town and from farm to farmTo carry the warning and sound the alarm!Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—For we need more men! Make no delay,But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of dayGuns and men shall be under way.But where shall I send these minute-men?”“Do you know Hand’s Cove?” said Allen then,“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me thereBy to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”“Good-by, I’m off!” Then down the roadAs if on seven-league boots he strode,While Allen watched from the forge’s doorTill the stalwart form he could see no more.Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;By nine of the clock he was out of reach.But still, as his will his steps outran,He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,Never a minute have you to lose,Never a minute to pick or choose;For sixty miles in twenty-four hoursIs surely enough to try your powers.So square your shoulders and speed awayWith never a halt by night or day.”’Twas a moonless night; but over his headThe stars a tremulous lustre shed,And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.He sniffed as he went. “It seems to meThere are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.I’ve read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;Now hark! there’s a wolf on yonder height;There’s a snarling catamount prowling round;Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-willsCall to each other from all the hills;A scream comes down from the eagle’s nest;The bark of a fox from the cliff’s tall crest;The owls hoot; and the very treesHave something to say to every breeze!”The paths were few and the ways were rudeIn the depths of that virgin solitude.The Indian’s trail and the hunter’s tracks,The trees scarred deep by the settler’s axe,Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—These were the signs he had to seek;Save where, it may be, he chanced to hitThe Crown Point road and could follow it—The road by the British troops hewn outUnder General Amherst in fifty-nine,When he drove the French from the old redoubt,Nor waited to give the countersign!The streams were many and swift and clear;But there was no bridge, or far or near.It was midnight when he paused to hearAt Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,And found a canoe by the river’s edge,In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tideHe launched it and flew to the other side;Then giving his message, on he sped,By the light of the pale stars overhead,Past the log church below Pine Hill,And the graveyard opposite. All was still,And the one lone sleeper lying thereStirred not either for cry or prayer.Only pausing to give the alarmAt rude log cabin and lonely farm.From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along,Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.Look! there’s a deer in the forest glade,Stealing along like a silent shade!Hark to the loon that cries and moansWith a living grief in its human tones!At Pittsford the light begins to growIn the wakening east; and drifting slow,From valley and river and wild-wood, rise,Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,Clouds of translucent, silver mist,Flushing to rose and amethyst;While thrush and robin and bluebird singTill the woods with jubilant music ring!It was day at last! He looked around,With a firmer tread on the springing ground;“Now the men will be all afield,” said he,“And that will save many a step for me.Each man will be ready to go; but still,I must confess, if I’d had my will,I’d have waited till after planting-time,For now the season is in its prime.The young green leaves of the oak-tree hereAre just the size of a squirrel’s ear;And I’ve known no rule, since I was born,Safer than that for planting corn!”He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills,He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,While still to his call, like minute-menBooted and spurred, from mount and glen,The settlers rallied. But on he wentLike an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,Down the long vale of the Otter to whereThe might of the waterfall thundered in air;Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,Where Hand’s Cove lay in the bending shore.The goal was reached. He dropped to the groundIn a deep ravine, without word or sound;And Sleep, the restorer, bade him restLike a weary child, on the earth’s brown breast.At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat,And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,And Ethan Allen, as proud of mienAs a king on his throne, smiled down on him,While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,As a knight who has done his chief’s behest!”“Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where’s my gun?A knight fights on till the field is won!”And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
Where the far skies soared clear and brightFrom mountain height to mountain height,In the heart of a forest old and gray,Castleton slept one Sabbath day—Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”Hark to the sound of the fife and drum!For up from the south two hundred men—Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,While the deep woods rang with their rallying cryOf “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”Swept into the town with a martial tread,Ethan Allen marching ahead!Next day the village was all astirWith unwonted tumult and hurry. There wereGatherings here and gatherings there,A feverish heat in the very air,The ominous sound of tramping feet,And eager groups in the dusty street.To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach(Idle it stood, and its master away);Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,First in the fight and first in the breach,And first in work where a man should be.“I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”So he wrought away till the sun went down,And silence fell on the turbulent town;And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,A square of light on the sandy road.Then over the threshold a shadow fell,And he heard a voice that he knew right well.It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knewWhere the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!But listen! more arduous work than this,Lying in wait for someone is;And tempering blades is only playTo the task I set for him this day—Or this night, rather.” A grim smile playedO’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed.“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;“What may this wonderful task-work be?”“To go by the light of the evening starOn an urgent errand, swift and far—From town to town and from farm to farmTo carry the warning and sound the alarm!Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—For we need more men! Make no delay,But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of dayGuns and men shall be under way.But where shall I send these minute-men?”“Do you know Hand’s Cove?” said Allen then,“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me thereBy to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”“Good-by, I’m off!” Then down the roadAs if on seven-league boots he strode,While Allen watched from the forge’s doorTill the stalwart form he could see no more.Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;By nine of the clock he was out of reach.But still, as his will his steps outran,He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,Never a minute have you to lose,Never a minute to pick or choose;For sixty miles in twenty-four hoursIs surely enough to try your powers.So square your shoulders and speed awayWith never a halt by night or day.”’Twas a moonless night; but over his headThe stars a tremulous lustre shed,And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.He sniffed as he went. “It seems to meThere are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.I’ve read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;Now hark! there’s a wolf on yonder height;There’s a snarling catamount prowling round;Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-willsCall to each other from all the hills;A scream comes down from the eagle’s nest;The bark of a fox from the cliff’s tall crest;The owls hoot; and the very treesHave something to say to every breeze!”The paths were few and the ways were rudeIn the depths of that virgin solitude.The Indian’s trail and the hunter’s tracks,The trees scarred deep by the settler’s axe,Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—These were the signs he had to seek;Save where, it may be, he chanced to hitThe Crown Point road and could follow it—The road by the British troops hewn outUnder General Amherst in fifty-nine,When he drove the French from the old redoubt,Nor waited to give the countersign!The streams were many and swift and clear;But there was no bridge, or far or near.It was midnight when he paused to hearAt Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,And found a canoe by the river’s edge,In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tideHe launched it and flew to the other side;Then giving his message, on he sped,By the light of the pale stars overhead,Past the log church below Pine Hill,And the graveyard opposite. All was still,And the one lone sleeper lying thereStirred not either for cry or prayer.Only pausing to give the alarmAt rude log cabin and lonely farm.From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along,Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.Look! there’s a deer in the forest glade,Stealing along like a silent shade!Hark to the loon that cries and moansWith a living grief in its human tones!At Pittsford the light begins to growIn the wakening east; and drifting slow,From valley and river and wild-wood, rise,Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,Clouds of translucent, silver mist,Flushing to rose and amethyst;While thrush and robin and bluebird singTill the woods with jubilant music ring!It was day at last! He looked around,With a firmer tread on the springing ground;“Now the men will be all afield,” said he,“And that will save many a step for me.Each man will be ready to go; but still,I must confess, if I’d had my will,I’d have waited till after planting-time,For now the season is in its prime.The young green leaves of the oak-tree hereAre just the size of a squirrel’s ear;And I’ve known no rule, since I was born,Safer than that for planting corn!”He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills,He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,While still to his call, like minute-menBooted and spurred, from mount and glen,The settlers rallied. But on he wentLike an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,Down the long vale of the Otter to whereThe might of the waterfall thundered in air;Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,Where Hand’s Cove lay in the bending shore.The goal was reached. He dropped to the groundIn a deep ravine, without word or sound;And Sleep, the restorer, bade him restLike a weary child, on the earth’s brown breast.At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat,And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,And Ethan Allen, as proud of mienAs a king on his throne, smiled down on him,While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,As a knight who has done his chief’s behest!”“Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where’s my gun?A knight fights on till the field is won!”And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
Where the far skies soared clear and brightFrom mountain height to mountain height,In the heart of a forest old and gray,Castleton slept one Sabbath day—Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.
But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”Hark to the sound of the fife and drum!For up from the south two hundred men—Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,While the deep woods rang with their rallying cryOf “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”Swept into the town with a martial tread,Ethan Allen marching ahead!
Next day the village was all astirWith unwonted tumult and hurry. There wereGatherings here and gatherings there,A feverish heat in the very air,The ominous sound of tramping feet,And eager groups in the dusty street.To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach(Idle it stood, and its master away);Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,First in the fight and first in the breach,And first in work where a man should be.“I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”
So he wrought away till the sun went down,And silence fell on the turbulent town;And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,A square of light on the sandy road.Then over the threshold a shadow fell,And he heard a voice that he knew right well.It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knewWhere the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!But listen! more arduous work than this,Lying in wait for someone is;And tempering blades is only playTo the task I set for him this day—Or this night, rather.” A grim smile playedO’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed.“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;“What may this wonderful task-work be?”
“To go by the light of the evening starOn an urgent errand, swift and far—From town to town and from farm to farmTo carry the warning and sound the alarm!Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—For we need more men! Make no delay,But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of dayGuns and men shall be under way.But where shall I send these minute-men?”“Do you know Hand’s Cove?” said Allen then,“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me thereBy to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”
“Good-by, I’m off!” Then down the roadAs if on seven-league boots he strode,While Allen watched from the forge’s doorTill the stalwart form he could see no more.Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;By nine of the clock he was out of reach.But still, as his will his steps outran,He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,Never a minute have you to lose,Never a minute to pick or choose;For sixty miles in twenty-four hoursIs surely enough to try your powers.So square your shoulders and speed awayWith never a halt by night or day.”
’Twas a moonless night; but over his headThe stars a tremulous lustre shed,And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.He sniffed as he went. “It seems to meThere are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.I’ve read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;Now hark! there’s a wolf on yonder height;There’s a snarling catamount prowling round;Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-willsCall to each other from all the hills;A scream comes down from the eagle’s nest;The bark of a fox from the cliff’s tall crest;The owls hoot; and the very treesHave something to say to every breeze!”
The paths were few and the ways were rudeIn the depths of that virgin solitude.The Indian’s trail and the hunter’s tracks,The trees scarred deep by the settler’s axe,Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—These were the signs he had to seek;Save where, it may be, he chanced to hitThe Crown Point road and could follow it—The road by the British troops hewn outUnder General Amherst in fifty-nine,When he drove the French from the old redoubt,Nor waited to give the countersign!
The streams were many and swift and clear;But there was no bridge, or far or near.It was midnight when he paused to hearAt Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,And found a canoe by the river’s edge,In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tideHe launched it and flew to the other side;Then giving his message, on he sped,By the light of the pale stars overhead,Past the log church below Pine Hill,And the graveyard opposite. All was still,And the one lone sleeper lying thereStirred not either for cry or prayer.
Only pausing to give the alarmAt rude log cabin and lonely farm.From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along,Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.Look! there’s a deer in the forest glade,Stealing along like a silent shade!Hark to the loon that cries and moansWith a living grief in its human tones!At Pittsford the light begins to growIn the wakening east; and drifting slow,From valley and river and wild-wood, rise,Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,Clouds of translucent, silver mist,Flushing to rose and amethyst;While thrush and robin and bluebird singTill the woods with jubilant music ring!
It was day at last! He looked around,With a firmer tread on the springing ground;“Now the men will be all afield,” said he,“And that will save many a step for me.Each man will be ready to go; but still,I must confess, if I’d had my will,I’d have waited till after planting-time,For now the season is in its prime.The young green leaves of the oak-tree hereAre just the size of a squirrel’s ear;And I’ve known no rule, since I was born,Safer than that for planting corn!”
He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills,He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,While still to his call, like minute-menBooted and spurred, from mount and glen,The settlers rallied. But on he wentLike an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,Down the long vale of the Otter to whereThe might of the waterfall thundered in air;Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,Where Hand’s Cove lay in the bending shore.The goal was reached. He dropped to the groundIn a deep ravine, without word or sound;And Sleep, the restorer, bade him restLike a weary child, on the earth’s brown breast.
At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat,And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,And Ethan Allen, as proud of mienAs a king on his throne, smiled down on him,While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,As a knight who has done his chief’s behest!”
“Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where’s my gun?A knight fights on till the field is won!”And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
Wind of the winter night,Under the starry skiesSomewhere my lady bright,Slumbering lies.Wrapped in calm maiden dreams,Where the pale moonlight streams,Softly she sleeps.I do not know her face,Pure as the lonely starThat in yon darkling spaceShineth afar;Never with soft commandTouched I her willing hand,Kissed I her lips.I have not heard her voice,I do not know her name;Yet doth my heart rejoice,Owning her claim;Yet am I true to her;All that is due to herSacred I keep.Never a thought of meTroubles her soft repose;Courant of mine may beLily nor rose.They may not bear to herThis heart’s fond prayer to her,Yet—she is mine.Wind of the winter night,Over the fields of snow,Over the hill so white,Tenderly blow!Somewhere red roses bloom;Into her warm, hushed room,Bear thou their breath.Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite,Breathe thou no tender word;Wind of the winter night,Die thou unheard.True love shall yet prevail,Telling its own sweet tale:Till then I wait.
Wind of the winter night,Under the starry skiesSomewhere my lady bright,Slumbering lies.Wrapped in calm maiden dreams,Where the pale moonlight streams,Softly she sleeps.I do not know her face,Pure as the lonely starThat in yon darkling spaceShineth afar;Never with soft commandTouched I her willing hand,Kissed I her lips.I have not heard her voice,I do not know her name;Yet doth my heart rejoice,Owning her claim;Yet am I true to her;All that is due to herSacred I keep.Never a thought of meTroubles her soft repose;Courant of mine may beLily nor rose.They may not bear to herThis heart’s fond prayer to her,Yet—she is mine.Wind of the winter night,Over the fields of snow,Over the hill so white,Tenderly blow!Somewhere red roses bloom;Into her warm, hushed room,Bear thou their breath.Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite,Breathe thou no tender word;Wind of the winter night,Die thou unheard.True love shall yet prevail,Telling its own sweet tale:Till then I wait.
Wind of the winter night,Under the starry skiesSomewhere my lady bright,Slumbering lies.Wrapped in calm maiden dreams,Where the pale moonlight streams,Softly she sleeps.
I do not know her face,Pure as the lonely starThat in yon darkling spaceShineth afar;Never with soft commandTouched I her willing hand,Kissed I her lips.
I have not heard her voice,I do not know her name;Yet doth my heart rejoice,Owning her claim;Yet am I true to her;All that is due to herSacred I keep.
Never a thought of meTroubles her soft repose;Courant of mine may beLily nor rose.They may not bear to herThis heart’s fond prayer to her,Yet—she is mine.
Wind of the winter night,Over the fields of snow,Over the hill so white,Tenderly blow!Somewhere red roses bloom;Into her warm, hushed room,Bear thou their breath.
Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite,Breathe thou no tender word;Wind of the winter night,Die thou unheard.True love shall yet prevail,Telling its own sweet tale:Till then I wait.
Bird, by her garden gateSinging thy happy song,Round thee the listening leavesJoyously throng.Tell them that yesternightUnder the stars so bright,I wooed and won her!Red rose, rejoice with me!Swing all thy censers low,Bid each fair bud of thineHasten to blow.Lift every glowing cupBrimming with sweetness up,For—I have won her!Wind, bear the tidings far,Far over hill and dale;Let every breeze that blowsSwell the glad tale.River, go tell the sea,Boundless and glad and free,That I have won her!Stars, ye who saw the blushSteal o’er her lovely face,When first her tender lipsGranted me grace,Who can with her compare,Queen of the maidens rare?Yet—I have won her!Sun, up yon azure heightTreading thy lofty way,Ruler of sea and land,King of the Day—Where’er thy banners fly,Who is so blest as I?I—who have won her!Oh, heart and soul of mine,Make ye the temple clean,Make all the cloisters pureSeen and unseen!Bring fragrant balm and myrrh,Make the shrine meet for her,Now ye have won her!
Bird, by her garden gateSinging thy happy song,Round thee the listening leavesJoyously throng.Tell them that yesternightUnder the stars so bright,I wooed and won her!Red rose, rejoice with me!Swing all thy censers low,Bid each fair bud of thineHasten to blow.Lift every glowing cupBrimming with sweetness up,For—I have won her!Wind, bear the tidings far,Far over hill and dale;Let every breeze that blowsSwell the glad tale.River, go tell the sea,Boundless and glad and free,That I have won her!Stars, ye who saw the blushSteal o’er her lovely face,When first her tender lipsGranted me grace,Who can with her compare,Queen of the maidens rare?Yet—I have won her!Sun, up yon azure heightTreading thy lofty way,Ruler of sea and land,King of the Day—Where’er thy banners fly,Who is so blest as I?I—who have won her!Oh, heart and soul of mine,Make ye the temple clean,Make all the cloisters pureSeen and unseen!Bring fragrant balm and myrrh,Make the shrine meet for her,Now ye have won her!
Bird, by her garden gateSinging thy happy song,Round thee the listening leavesJoyously throng.Tell them that yesternightUnder the stars so bright,I wooed and won her!
Red rose, rejoice with me!Swing all thy censers low,Bid each fair bud of thineHasten to blow.Lift every glowing cupBrimming with sweetness up,For—I have won her!
Wind, bear the tidings far,Far over hill and dale;Let every breeze that blowsSwell the glad tale.River, go tell the sea,Boundless and glad and free,That I have won her!
Stars, ye who saw the blushSteal o’er her lovely face,When first her tender lipsGranted me grace,Who can with her compare,Queen of the maidens rare?Yet—I have won her!
Sun, up yon azure heightTreading thy lofty way,Ruler of sea and land,King of the Day—Where’er thy banners fly,Who is so blest as I?I—who have won her!
Oh, heart and soul of mine,Make ye the temple clean,Make all the cloisters pureSeen and unseen!Bring fragrant balm and myrrh,Make the shrine meet for her,Now ye have won her!
Happy birds caroling love-songs, winds in the tree-tops at play,Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May!Over the mountains a splendor of crimson and amethyst swept:Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them crept.Down the green aisles of the orchard, pink-white with the promise of bloom,Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of perfume.Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain,Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain.Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway,Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay!“O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried,“Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!”But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the fireBlazed on the glowing hearth-stone like a sacrificial pyre.And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes,As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise.In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one,Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!
Happy birds caroling love-songs, winds in the tree-tops at play,Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May!Over the mountains a splendor of crimson and amethyst swept:Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them crept.Down the green aisles of the orchard, pink-white with the promise of bloom,Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of perfume.Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain,Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain.Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway,Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay!“O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried,“Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!”But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the fireBlazed on the glowing hearth-stone like a sacrificial pyre.And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes,As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise.In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one,Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!
Happy birds caroling love-songs, winds in the tree-tops at play,Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May!
Over the mountains a splendor of crimson and amethyst swept:Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them crept.
Down the green aisles of the orchard, pink-white with the promise of bloom,Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of perfume.
Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain,Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain.
Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway,Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay!
“O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried,“Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!”
But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the fireBlazed on the glowing hearth-stone like a sacrificial pyre.
And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes,As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise.
In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one,Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!
When the hour has come and the servants waitThe tramp of steeds at the castle gate,When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hallLike a thousand stars burn over all,When the board is spread and the feast is set,And the dew on the roses lingers yet,Whom shall the Master summonTo sit at his right hand?Let the music soar to the vaulted roof,Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof,While chief and retainer alike awaitThe Lord of the Castle who cometh late;The guests are bidden, the red wine flows,But not the wisest among them knowsWhom the Master shall summonTo sit at his right hand!For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late,When he comes, at length, in pomp and state,And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword,Strides to his place at the head of the board,Ofttimes reverses the order set,Nor beckons to crown or coronet!Whom he will the Master summonsTo sit at his right hand!
When the hour has come and the servants waitThe tramp of steeds at the castle gate,When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hallLike a thousand stars burn over all,When the board is spread and the feast is set,And the dew on the roses lingers yet,Whom shall the Master summonTo sit at his right hand?Let the music soar to the vaulted roof,Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof,While chief and retainer alike awaitThe Lord of the Castle who cometh late;The guests are bidden, the red wine flows,But not the wisest among them knowsWhom the Master shall summonTo sit at his right hand!For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late,When he comes, at length, in pomp and state,And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword,Strides to his place at the head of the board,Ofttimes reverses the order set,Nor beckons to crown or coronet!Whom he will the Master summonsTo sit at his right hand!
When the hour has come and the servants waitThe tramp of steeds at the castle gate,When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hallLike a thousand stars burn over all,When the board is spread and the feast is set,And the dew on the roses lingers yet,Whom shall the Master summonTo sit at his right hand?
Let the music soar to the vaulted roof,Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof,While chief and retainer alike awaitThe Lord of the Castle who cometh late;The guests are bidden, the red wine flows,But not the wisest among them knowsWhom the Master shall summonTo sit at his right hand!
For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late,When he comes, at length, in pomp and state,And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword,Strides to his place at the head of the board,Ofttimes reverses the order set,Nor beckons to crown or coronet!Whom he will the Master summonsTo sit at his right hand!
“Just the same thing over and over!”But that is the way of the world, my dear;Over and over, over and over,Old things repeated from year to year!Hear what the sun saith: “Patient still,The vaulted heavens I climb and climb,Over and over with tireless will,Day after day till the end of time!Never a pause and never a rest;Yet every morning the earth is new,And ever the clouds in the golden westHave a fresh glory shining through.”Hear what the grass saith: “Up the hillsAnd through the orchard I creep and creep,Over the meadows, and where the rillsLaugh in the shadows cool and deep.Every spring it is just the same!And because it is, I am sure to seeThe oriole’s flash of vivid flameIn the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.”Hear what dear Love saith: “Ah, I hearThe same old story over and over;Mother and maiden year by yearWhisper it still to child and lover!But sweeter it grows from age to age,The song begotten so long ago,When first man came to his heritage,And walked with God in the even-glow.”
“Just the same thing over and over!”But that is the way of the world, my dear;Over and over, over and over,Old things repeated from year to year!Hear what the sun saith: “Patient still,The vaulted heavens I climb and climb,Over and over with tireless will,Day after day till the end of time!Never a pause and never a rest;Yet every morning the earth is new,And ever the clouds in the golden westHave a fresh glory shining through.”Hear what the grass saith: “Up the hillsAnd through the orchard I creep and creep,Over the meadows, and where the rillsLaugh in the shadows cool and deep.Every spring it is just the same!And because it is, I am sure to seeThe oriole’s flash of vivid flameIn the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.”Hear what dear Love saith: “Ah, I hearThe same old story over and over;Mother and maiden year by yearWhisper it still to child and lover!But sweeter it grows from age to age,The song begotten so long ago,When first man came to his heritage,And walked with God in the even-glow.”
“Just the same thing over and over!”But that is the way of the world, my dear;Over and over, over and over,Old things repeated from year to year!
Hear what the sun saith: “Patient still,The vaulted heavens I climb and climb,Over and over with tireless will,Day after day till the end of time!
Never a pause and never a rest;Yet every morning the earth is new,And ever the clouds in the golden westHave a fresh glory shining through.”
Hear what the grass saith: “Up the hillsAnd through the orchard I creep and creep,Over the meadows, and where the rillsLaugh in the shadows cool and deep.
Every spring it is just the same!And because it is, I am sure to seeThe oriole’s flash of vivid flameIn the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.”
Hear what dear Love saith: “Ah, I hearThe same old story over and over;Mother and maiden year by yearWhisper it still to child and lover!
But sweeter it grows from age to age,The song begotten so long ago,When first man came to his heritage,And walked with God in the even-glow.”
A little bird sat on an apple-tree,And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,But from it there floated no silvery note.“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he—“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he.In tremulous showers the apple-tree shedIts pink and white blossoms on his head;The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.“All the others can sing,” he dolefully said—“All the others can sing,” he said.So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wideThe music was borne on the air’s warm tide,A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.“If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried;“Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.
A little bird sat on an apple-tree,And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,But from it there floated no silvery note.“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he—“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he.In tremulous showers the apple-tree shedIts pink and white blossoms on his head;The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.“All the others can sing,” he dolefully said—“All the others can sing,” he said.So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wideThe music was borne on the air’s warm tide,A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.“If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried;“Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.
A little bird sat on an apple-tree,And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,But from it there floated no silvery note.“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he—“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he.
In tremulous showers the apple-tree shedIts pink and white blossoms on his head;The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.“All the others can sing,” he dolefully said—“All the others can sing,” he said.
So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wideThe music was borne on the air’s warm tide,A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.“If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried;“Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.
O Virgin hearth, as chaste and coldAs one who waits for burial mould,Whom shall we summon here to keepWatch while thou wakest from thy sleep?Not from the far sky spaces, blueAs those that Zeus and Hera knew,May Hestia wing her airy flight,Bringer of holy warmth and light.Pan may not come. By stream and shoreFair Naiads dry their locks no more;No Oread dwells in mount and glen;No Dryad flees from gods or men.Yet still do forest voices clearGreet him whose soul hath ears to hear;The murmur of the rustling pineIs sweet as Hermes’s harp divine.The winds that rend the mighty oakClash loud as Ares’s battle stroke;The maples toss each leafy crownThough Dian’s votive wreaths are brown.Here, as to sacrificial pyreKindled with pure celestial fire,Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bringThe deep wood’s fragrant offering,As incense to this household shrine.O hearth, no richer spoil were thineIf all Dodona’s oaks had shedTheir life-blood and for thee lay dead!Thou waiting one, doth no strange thrillThy quickening veins with wonder fill?Have the far-seeing, prescient yearsNo presage for thy listening ears?Life hath its phases manifold,Yet still the new repeats the old;There is no truer truth than this:What was, is still the thing that is.Therefore we know that thou wilt hearChildhood’s light laughter ringing clear;The flow of song, the breath of prayer,Whisper of love, and sigh of care.Thou wilt see youth go forth to gaugeHis being’s lofty heritage,And manhood in the autumn evesCome homeward laden with his sheaves.O life and death, O joy and woe,In mingling streams your tides shall flow,While sun and storm alike fulfilThe mandates of the Eternal Will!Now bring the torch and light the fire,Let the swift flames leap high and higher,Let the red radiance stream afar,Dearer than glow of moon or star!Burn, burn, O fire, burn still and clear,And fill the house with warmth and cheer!Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright,And souls shall soar to share thy flight!
O Virgin hearth, as chaste and coldAs one who waits for burial mould,Whom shall we summon here to keepWatch while thou wakest from thy sleep?Not from the far sky spaces, blueAs those that Zeus and Hera knew,May Hestia wing her airy flight,Bringer of holy warmth and light.Pan may not come. By stream and shoreFair Naiads dry their locks no more;No Oread dwells in mount and glen;No Dryad flees from gods or men.Yet still do forest voices clearGreet him whose soul hath ears to hear;The murmur of the rustling pineIs sweet as Hermes’s harp divine.The winds that rend the mighty oakClash loud as Ares’s battle stroke;The maples toss each leafy crownThough Dian’s votive wreaths are brown.Here, as to sacrificial pyreKindled with pure celestial fire,Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bringThe deep wood’s fragrant offering,As incense to this household shrine.O hearth, no richer spoil were thineIf all Dodona’s oaks had shedTheir life-blood and for thee lay dead!Thou waiting one, doth no strange thrillThy quickening veins with wonder fill?Have the far-seeing, prescient yearsNo presage for thy listening ears?Life hath its phases manifold,Yet still the new repeats the old;There is no truer truth than this:What was, is still the thing that is.Therefore we know that thou wilt hearChildhood’s light laughter ringing clear;The flow of song, the breath of prayer,Whisper of love, and sigh of care.Thou wilt see youth go forth to gaugeHis being’s lofty heritage,And manhood in the autumn evesCome homeward laden with his sheaves.O life and death, O joy and woe,In mingling streams your tides shall flow,While sun and storm alike fulfilThe mandates of the Eternal Will!Now bring the torch and light the fire,Let the swift flames leap high and higher,Let the red radiance stream afar,Dearer than glow of moon or star!Burn, burn, O fire, burn still and clear,And fill the house with warmth and cheer!Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright,And souls shall soar to share thy flight!
O Virgin hearth, as chaste and coldAs one who waits for burial mould,Whom shall we summon here to keepWatch while thou wakest from thy sleep?
Not from the far sky spaces, blueAs those that Zeus and Hera knew,May Hestia wing her airy flight,Bringer of holy warmth and light.
Pan may not come. By stream and shoreFair Naiads dry their locks no more;No Oread dwells in mount and glen;No Dryad flees from gods or men.
Yet still do forest voices clearGreet him whose soul hath ears to hear;The murmur of the rustling pineIs sweet as Hermes’s harp divine.
The winds that rend the mighty oakClash loud as Ares’s battle stroke;The maples toss each leafy crownThough Dian’s votive wreaths are brown.
Here, as to sacrificial pyreKindled with pure celestial fire,Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bringThe deep wood’s fragrant offering,
As incense to this household shrine.O hearth, no richer spoil were thineIf all Dodona’s oaks had shedTheir life-blood and for thee lay dead!
Thou waiting one, doth no strange thrillThy quickening veins with wonder fill?Have the far-seeing, prescient yearsNo presage for thy listening ears?
Life hath its phases manifold,Yet still the new repeats the old;There is no truer truth than this:What was, is still the thing that is.
Therefore we know that thou wilt hearChildhood’s light laughter ringing clear;The flow of song, the breath of prayer,Whisper of love, and sigh of care.
Thou wilt see youth go forth to gaugeHis being’s lofty heritage,And manhood in the autumn evesCome homeward laden with his sheaves.
O life and death, O joy and woe,In mingling streams your tides shall flow,While sun and storm alike fulfilThe mandates of the Eternal Will!
Now bring the torch and light the fire,Let the swift flames leap high and higher,Let the red radiance stream afar,Dearer than glow of moon or star!
Burn, burn, O fire, burn still and clear,And fill the house with warmth and cheer!Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright,And souls shall soar to share thy flight!
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Down yon lonely heightHear the joyous summons pealingThrough the starry night.Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Ring the Christmas bells;From the church-tower on the hillClear the music swells.Far and near the listening mountainsBend to catch the strain,Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastnessJoin the glad refrain,—Noel! Noel!All the pine-treesFeel a subtile thrill,And the hemlock groves, responsive,Whisper and are still.Noel! Noel!Through the valleyWhere the river goesIn and out between the meadows,Soft the music flows,And the river, dumbly sleeping,Feels its cold heart beatAnswering to the pulsing rhythmOf the anthem sweet.Noel! Noel!Hark! a rustlingOn the frosty air,Where the aspens, all a-quiver,Bend their branches bare;Airy birches, stately maples,Black against the sky,Wave their leafless boughs like bannersWhen a king goes by.Noel! Noel!Sweet-breathed oxen,In the farm-yard close,Lift their horned heads to listen,Startled from repose;Then they sleep as slept the white flocksOn Judea’s hills,While again the olden gloryEarth with rapture fills.Noel! Noel!Little childrenIn their soft nests smile,Dreaming of fair choiring angelsFloating near the while;Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened,Stir their drowsy wingsWith, mayhap, a vague, unconsciousSense of heavenly things.Noel! Noel!In the church-yard,Where the low graves lie,Light winds bear the strains melodious,Soft as spirit’s sigh;Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers,As it dies and swells?Hear your ears the mystic musicOf earth’s Christmas bells?
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Down yon lonely heightHear the joyous summons pealingThrough the starry night.Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Ring the Christmas bells;From the church-tower on the hillClear the music swells.Far and near the listening mountainsBend to catch the strain,Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastnessJoin the glad refrain,—Noel! Noel!All the pine-treesFeel a subtile thrill,And the hemlock groves, responsive,Whisper and are still.Noel! Noel!Through the valleyWhere the river goesIn and out between the meadows,Soft the music flows,And the river, dumbly sleeping,Feels its cold heart beatAnswering to the pulsing rhythmOf the anthem sweet.Noel! Noel!Hark! a rustlingOn the frosty air,Where the aspens, all a-quiver,Bend their branches bare;Airy birches, stately maples,Black against the sky,Wave their leafless boughs like bannersWhen a king goes by.Noel! Noel!Sweet-breathed oxen,In the farm-yard close,Lift their horned heads to listen,Startled from repose;Then they sleep as slept the white flocksOn Judea’s hills,While again the olden gloryEarth with rapture fills.Noel! Noel!Little childrenIn their soft nests smile,Dreaming of fair choiring angelsFloating near the while;Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened,Stir their drowsy wingsWith, mayhap, a vague, unconsciousSense of heavenly things.Noel! Noel!In the church-yard,Where the low graves lie,Light winds bear the strains melodious,Soft as spirit’s sigh;Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers,As it dies and swells?Hear your ears the mystic musicOf earth’s Christmas bells?
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Down yon lonely heightHear the joyous summons pealingThrough the starry night.Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Ring the Christmas bells;From the church-tower on the hillClear the music swells.
Far and near the listening mountainsBend to catch the strain,Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastnessJoin the glad refrain,—Noel! Noel!All the pine-treesFeel a subtile thrill,And the hemlock groves, responsive,Whisper and are still.
Noel! Noel!Through the valleyWhere the river goesIn and out between the meadows,Soft the music flows,And the river, dumbly sleeping,Feels its cold heart beatAnswering to the pulsing rhythmOf the anthem sweet.
Noel! Noel!Hark! a rustlingOn the frosty air,Where the aspens, all a-quiver,Bend their branches bare;Airy birches, stately maples,Black against the sky,Wave their leafless boughs like bannersWhen a king goes by.
Noel! Noel!Sweet-breathed oxen,In the farm-yard close,Lift their horned heads to listen,Startled from repose;Then they sleep as slept the white flocksOn Judea’s hills,While again the olden gloryEarth with rapture fills.
Noel! Noel!Little childrenIn their soft nests smile,Dreaming of fair choiring angelsFloating near the while;Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened,Stir their drowsy wingsWith, mayhap, a vague, unconsciousSense of heavenly things.
Noel! Noel!In the church-yard,Where the low graves lie,Light winds bear the strains melodious,Soft as spirit’s sigh;Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers,As it dies and swells?Hear your ears the mystic musicOf earth’s Christmas bells?
In cool gray cloisters walks my Lady Sleep,Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one;Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep;Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done.Sometimes, while winds sigh soft above her head,Down the long garden path my Lady strays,And kneeling by the pansies’ purple bed,Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze.Sometimes she lies upon the silver sands,Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip;Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands,The shining grains that through her fingers slip.Or paces long, with flowing locks all wet,Where the low thunder booms forevermore,And the great waves no man hath numbered yet,Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore.Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars,The daisies smiling in the meadow grass,The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars,The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass.But evermore her hands are cool and calm—Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low;And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm,And silent as a dream her garments flow.She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell?Angels of God, do ye her secret keep?Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell,The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?
In cool gray cloisters walks my Lady Sleep,Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one;Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep;Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done.Sometimes, while winds sigh soft above her head,Down the long garden path my Lady strays,And kneeling by the pansies’ purple bed,Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze.Sometimes she lies upon the silver sands,Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip;Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands,The shining grains that through her fingers slip.Or paces long, with flowing locks all wet,Where the low thunder booms forevermore,And the great waves no man hath numbered yet,Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore.Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars,The daisies smiling in the meadow grass,The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars,The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass.But evermore her hands are cool and calm—Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low;And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm,And silent as a dream her garments flow.She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell?Angels of God, do ye her secret keep?Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell,The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?
In cool gray cloisters walks my Lady Sleep,Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one;Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep;Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done.
Sometimes, while winds sigh soft above her head,Down the long garden path my Lady strays,And kneeling by the pansies’ purple bed,Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze.
Sometimes she lies upon the silver sands,Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip;Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands,The shining grains that through her fingers slip.
Or paces long, with flowing locks all wet,Where the low thunder booms forevermore,And the great waves no man hath numbered yet,Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore.
Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars,The daisies smiling in the meadow grass,The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars,The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass.
But evermore her hands are cool and calm—Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low;And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm,And silent as a dream her garments flow.
She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell?Angels of God, do ye her secret keep?Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell,The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?
“The King’s touch—there is magic in it!When the early dawn in the east is red,And I hear the song of the lark and linnet,I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden grayI will steal like a shadow over the hills,And down where the pendulous willows sway,And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—Till I reach the edge of the forest wide;And there will I bide, where the still shades are,Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride,And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.I will wait and listen until I seeThe nodding plumes of the merry menAnd the glancing pennants floating free,A gleam of light in the lonely glen.Then low in the dust at his royal feetI will kneel for the touch of his healing hand;Perchance he will give ere I entreat,Before I cry he may understand!The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow—A wise old man with a reverent air—And the laughing courtiers, row on row;Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all.His eye will discover the wound concealed;He will bend to hear me before I call.Whom the King touches shall be healed!”Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell!She was dust and ashes long ago,With the proud young king and his leech as well,And the smiling courtiers, row on row.But whether the dawn in the east be red,Or whether the stars bloom out afield,This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead:“Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
“The King’s touch—there is magic in it!When the early dawn in the east is red,And I hear the song of the lark and linnet,I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden grayI will steal like a shadow over the hills,And down where the pendulous willows sway,And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—Till I reach the edge of the forest wide;And there will I bide, where the still shades are,Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride,And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.I will wait and listen until I seeThe nodding plumes of the merry menAnd the glancing pennants floating free,A gleam of light in the lonely glen.Then low in the dust at his royal feetI will kneel for the touch of his healing hand;Perchance he will give ere I entreat,Before I cry he may understand!The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow—A wise old man with a reverent air—And the laughing courtiers, row on row;Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all.His eye will discover the wound concealed;He will bend to hear me before I call.Whom the King touches shall be healed!”Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell!She was dust and ashes long ago,With the proud young king and his leech as well,And the smiling courtiers, row on row.But whether the dawn in the east be red,Or whether the stars bloom out afield,This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead:“Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
“The King’s touch—there is magic in it!When the early dawn in the east is red,And I hear the song of the lark and linnet,I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.
Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden grayI will steal like a shadow over the hills,And down where the pendulous willows sway,And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—
Till I reach the edge of the forest wide;And there will I bide, where the still shades are,Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride,And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.
I will wait and listen until I seeThe nodding plumes of the merry menAnd the glancing pennants floating free,A gleam of light in the lonely glen.
Then low in the dust at his royal feetI will kneel for the touch of his healing hand;Perchance he will give ere I entreat,Before I cry he may understand!
The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow—A wise old man with a reverent air—And the laughing courtiers, row on row;Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.
’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all.His eye will discover the wound concealed;He will bend to hear me before I call.Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell!She was dust and ashes long ago,With the proud young king and his leech as well,And the smiling courtiers, row on row.
But whether the dawn in the east be red,Or whether the stars bloom out afield,This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead:“Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
Unknown to me thy name or state,Save that a mantle saintlyOf rare and sweet unworldlinessEnfolded thee most quaintly.We came and went by divers paths;We planned nor time, nor meeting;We spake not, save by nod, or smile,Or glance of casual greeting.Yet, led by some strange chance or fateTo-day by ruined altars,Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves,The pitying sunshine falters;To-morrow where your blue lakes shine,And bloom your English daisies;Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crestThe sunset splendor blazes;Or where deep organ-thunders rollThrough grand cathedral arches,And stately Durham’s triple towersLook toward the Scottish marches;Thus, here and there, we met, nor knewEach other’s name nor mission,The while a subtile kinship grewTo silent recognition.At length where stretched a princely streetIn long, receding splendor,Down which the golden sunshine threwA radiance warm and tender;While far above us, frowning, hungA castle old and hoary,Stern on its battlemented heightsRenowned in song and story;And near us, throned in marble state,O’er time and death victorious,Hesat, the magic of whose penMade king and castle glorious—There, face to face, once more we met,Like leaves in autumn weather,That blown afar by varying winds,Yet drift again together.A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?”A little low, sweet laughter,Just one close clasp of meeting hands,And then, a moment after,Between us swept the surging crowdAnd we were borne asunder.O, friend unknown, in what far landWill we next meet, I wonder?
Unknown to me thy name or state,Save that a mantle saintlyOf rare and sweet unworldlinessEnfolded thee most quaintly.We came and went by divers paths;We planned nor time, nor meeting;We spake not, save by nod, or smile,Or glance of casual greeting.Yet, led by some strange chance or fateTo-day by ruined altars,Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves,The pitying sunshine falters;To-morrow where your blue lakes shine,And bloom your English daisies;Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crestThe sunset splendor blazes;Or where deep organ-thunders rollThrough grand cathedral arches,And stately Durham’s triple towersLook toward the Scottish marches;Thus, here and there, we met, nor knewEach other’s name nor mission,The while a subtile kinship grewTo silent recognition.At length where stretched a princely streetIn long, receding splendor,Down which the golden sunshine threwA radiance warm and tender;While far above us, frowning, hungA castle old and hoary,Stern on its battlemented heightsRenowned in song and story;And near us, throned in marble state,O’er time and death victorious,Hesat, the magic of whose penMade king and castle glorious—There, face to face, once more we met,Like leaves in autumn weather,That blown afar by varying winds,Yet drift again together.A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?”A little low, sweet laughter,Just one close clasp of meeting hands,And then, a moment after,Between us swept the surging crowdAnd we were borne asunder.O, friend unknown, in what far landWill we next meet, I wonder?
Unknown to me thy name or state,Save that a mantle saintlyOf rare and sweet unworldlinessEnfolded thee most quaintly.
We came and went by divers paths;We planned nor time, nor meeting;We spake not, save by nod, or smile,Or glance of casual greeting.
Yet, led by some strange chance or fateTo-day by ruined altars,Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves,The pitying sunshine falters;
To-morrow where your blue lakes shine,And bloom your English daisies;Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crestThe sunset splendor blazes;
Or where deep organ-thunders rollThrough grand cathedral arches,And stately Durham’s triple towersLook toward the Scottish marches;
Thus, here and there, we met, nor knewEach other’s name nor mission,The while a subtile kinship grewTo silent recognition.
At length where stretched a princely streetIn long, receding splendor,Down which the golden sunshine threwA radiance warm and tender;
While far above us, frowning, hungA castle old and hoary,Stern on its battlemented heightsRenowned in song and story;
And near us, throned in marble state,O’er time and death victorious,Hesat, the magic of whose penMade king and castle glorious—
There, face to face, once more we met,Like leaves in autumn weather,That blown afar by varying winds,Yet drift again together.
A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?”A little low, sweet laughter,Just one close clasp of meeting hands,And then, a moment after,
Between us swept the surging crowdAnd we were borne asunder.O, friend unknown, in what far landWill we next meet, I wonder?
“The nest of the blind bird is built by God.”—Turkish Proverb.