THE RIVER OTTERA FRAGMENT

Turned their gaze,Earnest and pitiful, on the waysWhere the poor, burdened sons of toilEarned their bread amid dust and moil.Saw the dim attics where, day by day,Women were stitching their lives away,Bending low o’er the slender steelTill heart and brain began to reel,And their daysStretched on and on in a dreary maze.

Then he spoke;Lo! at once into being wokeMuscles of iron, arms of steel,Nerves that never a thrill could feel!Wheels and pulleys and whirling bandsDid the work of the weary hands,And tireless feet moved to and froWhere the aching limbs were wont to go,When he spokeAnd all his sprites into being woke.

Do you sayHe was no saint who has passed away?Saint or sinner, he did brave deedsAnswering still to humanity’s needs!Songs he hath sung that shall live for aye;Words he hath uttered that ne’er shall die;Richer the world than when the earthSang for joy to hail his birth,Even though you sayHe was no saint whom we sing to-day.

Lo! we waitKnocking here at the sepulchre’s gate!Souls of the Ages passed away,A mightier joins your ranks to-day;Open your doors, ye royal dead,And welcome give to this crownèd head!For calmly under this sable pallSleepeth the kingliest of ye all,While we waitAt the sepulchre’s awful gate!

Give him roomProudly, Centuries! in your tomb.Now that his weary work is done,Honor and rest he well hath won.Let him who is first among you payHomage to him who comes this day,Bidding him pass to his destined place,Noblest of all his noble race!Make ye roomFor the kingly dead in the silent tomb!

A hundred times the Summer’s fragrant bloomsHave laden all the air with sweet perfumes;A hundred times, along the mountain-side,Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide;A hundred times has kindly Winter spreadHis snowy mantle o’er the violet’s bed;A hundred times has Earth rejoiced to hearThe Spring’s light footsteps in the forest sere,Since on yon grassy knoll the quick, sharp strokeOf the young woodman’s axe the silence broke.Not then did these encircling hills look downOn quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town.No church-spires pointed to the arching skies;No wandering lovers saw the moon arise;No childish laughter mingled with the songOf the fair Otter, as it flowed alongAs brightly then as now. Ah! little reckedThe joyous river, when the sunshine fleckedIts dancing waters, that no human eyeGave it glad welcome as it frolicked by!The long, uncounted years had come and flown,And it had still swept on, unseen, unknown,Biding its time. No minstrel sang its praise,No poet named it in immortal lays.It played no part in legendary lore,And young Romance knew not its winding shore.But in her own loveliness Nature is glad,And little she cares for man’s smile or his frown;In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!And over our beautiful Otter the treesSwayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;And the tremulous violet lifted an eyeAs blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.The harebell trembled on its stemDown where the rushing waters gleam,A sapphire on the broidered hemOf some fair Naiad of the stream.The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,Held up their chalices of goldTo catch the sunshine and the dew,Gayly as those that bloom for you.And deep within the forest shade,Where broadest noon mere twilight made,Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung,And tiny bells by zephyrs rung,Made tinkling music till the dayIn solemn splendor died away.The woods were full of praise and prayer,Although no human tongue was there;For every pine and hemlock sungThe grand cathedral aisles among,And every flower that gemmed the sodLooked up and whispered, “Thou art God.”The birds sung as they sing to-day,A song of love and joy alway.The brown thrush from its golden throatPoured out its long, melodious note;The pigeons cooed; the veery threwIts mellow thrill from spray to spray;The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,”From set of sun to break of day.The partridge reared her fearless broodSafe in the darkling solitude,And the bald eagle built its nestHigh on the tall cliff’s craggy crest.And often, when the still moonlightMade all the lonely valley bright,Down from the hills its thirst to slake,The deer trod softly through the brake;While far away the spotted fawnWaited the coming of the dawn,And trembled when the panther’s screamStartled it from a troubled dream.The black bear roamed the forest wide;The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side;The wild-cat’s silent, stealthy treadWas, even there, a fear and dread;The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound,That woke the slumbering echoes round;And the burrowing mink and otter hidIn their holes the tangled roots amid.Lords of their limitless domain,Of hill and dale, of mount and plain,The wild things dreamed not of the hourWhen they should own their Master’s power!

. . . Grand, heroic, true,Faithful and brave thine earnest work to do,O glorious present! we rejoice in thee,Thou noble nurse of great deeds yet to be!Hast thou not shown us that our mother EarthStill, in exultant joy, gives heroes birth?Do not the old romances that our youth,Revered and honored as the truest truth,Grow pale and dim before the facts sublimeThy pen has written on the scroll of Time?Ah! never yet did poet’s tongue,Though like a silver bell it rung;Or minstrel, o’er his sounding lyreBreathing the old, prophetic fire;Or harper, in the storied wallsOf Scotia’s proud, baronial halls—Where mail-clad men with sword and spearWaited entranced the song to hear,That through the stormy midnight hourFast held them in its spell of power—Ah! never yet did they rehearse,In flowing rhyme or stately verse,The praise of deeds more nobly done,Or tell of fields more grandly won!We laud thee, we praise thee, we bless thee to-day!At thy feet, lowly bending, glad homage we pay!Thou hast taught us that men are as brave as of yore;That the day of great deeds and great thought is not o’er;That the courage undaunted, the far-reaching faith,The strength that unshaken looks calmly on death,The self-abnegation that hastens to layIts all on the altar, have not passed away.Thou hast taught us that “country” is more than a name;That honor unsullied is better than fame;Thou hast proved that while man can still battle for truth,Even boyhood can give up the promise of youth,And, yielding its life with a smile and a sigh,Say, “’Tis sweet for my God and my country to die.”O heart-searching Present, thy sons have gone downTo the night of the grave in their day of renown!Thy daughters have watched by the hearth-stone in vainFor the loved and the lost that returned not again.No Spartans were they—yet with tears falling fast,Their faith and their patience endured to the last;And God gave them strength to their dearest to say,“Go ye forth to the fight, while we labor and pray!”Thou hast opened thy coffers on land and on sea,And broad-handed Charity, noble and free,Has lavished thy bounties on friend and on foe,Like the rain that, descending, falls softly and slowOn the just and the unjust, and never may knowThe one from the other. When thy story is toldBy some age that looks backward and calls thee “the old,”It shall puzzle its sages, all great as thou art,To tell which was greatest, thy head or thy heart!Mighty words thy lips have spoken—Strongest fetters thou hast broken—And in tones like those of thunder,When the clouds are rent asunder,Thou hast made the Nations hear thee—Thou hast bade the Tyrants fear thee—And our hearts to-day proclaim thee,As they oft have done before,Fit to lead the glorious legionsOf the glorious days of yore!Yet still, we pray thee, veil awhileThy splendor from our dazzled eyesAnd hide the glory of thy smile,Lest our souls wake to new surprise!Bear with us while our feet to-dayRetrace a dim and shadowy way,In search of what, it well may be,Shall help to make us worthier thee!And now, O, spirit of the Past, draw near,And let us feel thy blessed presence here!With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low,We wait to hear thy garments’ rustling flow!From all the conflicts of our busy life,From all its bitter and enduring strife,Its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil,Its cares, its joys, its sorrows and its toil,Its aspirations, that too often seemLike the remembered phantoms of a dream,We turn aside. This hour is thine alone,And none shall share the grandeur of thy throne.Ah! thou art here! Beneath these whispering treesThy breath floats softly on the passing breeze;We feel the presence that we cannot see,And every moment draws us nearer thee.Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes,In whose rare depths such wondrous meaning lies—Thy dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground—Thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned—Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene!There is no expectation in thy mien,For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor painCan e’er disturb thy placid calm again.What is this veil that hides thee from our sight?Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright!It may not be! Our eyes are dim,Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears;We hear no more the choral hymnThe angels sing among the spheres.Weary and worn and tempest-tossed,Much have we gained—and something lost—Since in the sunbeams golden glow,The rippling river’s silvery flow,The song of bird or murmuring bee,The fragrant flower, the stately tree,The royal pomp of sunset skies,And all earth’s varied harmonies,We saw and heard what nevermoreCan Earth or Heaven to us restore,And felt a child’s unquestioning faithIn childhood’s mystic lore!Yet could our voices reach the slumbering deadWho rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed,This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught—That they are heroes to our eyes and thought.For they were men who never dreamed of fame:They did not toil to make themselves a name;They little fancied that when years had passed,And the long century had died at last,Another age should make their graves a shrine,And humble chaplets for their memory twine.They simply strove, as other men may strive,Full, earnest lives in sober strength to live;They did the duty nearest to their hand;Subdued wild nature as at God’s command;Laid the broad acres open to the sun,And made fair homes in forests dark and dun;Built churches, founded schools, established laws,Kindly and just and true to freedom’s cause;Resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts,In war, as well as peace, played well their parts.Their men were brave; their women pure and true;Their sons ashamed no honest work to do;And while they dreamed no dreams of being great,They did great deeds, and conquered hostile Fate.We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day;At their graves, as their right, tearful homage we pay!And the laurel-crowned Present comes humbly at last,And bends by our side at the shrine of the Past.With the hands that such burdens unshrinking have borne,From the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn,She takes off the chaplet, and lays it with tears,That she cares not to hide, at the feet of the Years.Hark! a breath of faint music, a murmur of song!A form of strange beauty is floating alongOn the soft summer air, and the Future draws near,With a light on her young face, unshadowed and clear.Two garlands she bears in the arms that not yetHave toiled ’neath the burden and heat of the day;Lo! both are of amaranth, fragrant and wetWith the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway.Oh! well may we hush our vain babblings—and wait!He who merits the crown, wears it sooner or late!On the brow of the Present, the grave of the Past,The wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last!

And now, O, spirit of the Past, draw near,And let us feel thy blessed presence here!With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low,We wait to hear thy garments’ rustling flow!From all the conflicts of our busy life,From all its bitter and enduring strife,Its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil,Its cares, its joys, its sorrows and its toil,Its aspirations, that too often seemLike the remembered phantoms of a dream,We turn aside. This hour is thine alone,And none shall share the grandeur of thy throne.Ah! thou art here! Beneath these whispering treesThy breath floats softly on the passing breeze;We feel the presence that we cannot see,And every moment draws us nearer thee.Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes,In whose rare depths such wondrous meaning lies—Thy dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground—Thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned—Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene!There is no expectation in thy mien,For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor painCan e’er disturb thy placid calm again.What is this veil that hides thee from our sight?Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright!It may not be! Our eyes are dim,Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears;We hear no more the choral hymnThe angels sing among the spheres.Weary and worn and tempest-tossed,Much have we gained—and something lost—Since in the sunbeams golden glow,The rippling river’s silvery flow,The song of bird or murmuring bee,The fragrant flower, the stately tree,The royal pomp of sunset skies,And all earth’s varied harmonies,We saw and heard what nevermoreCan Earth or Heaven to us restore,And felt a child’s unquestioning faithIn childhood’s mystic lore!

Yet could our voices reach the slumbering deadWho rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed,This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught—That they are heroes to our eyes and thought.For they were men who never dreamed of fame:They did not toil to make themselves a name;They little fancied that when years had passed,And the long century had died at last,Another age should make their graves a shrine,And humble chaplets for their memory twine.They simply strove, as other men may strive,Full, earnest lives in sober strength to live;They did the duty nearest to their hand;Subdued wild nature as at God’s command;Laid the broad acres open to the sun,And made fair homes in forests dark and dun;Built churches, founded schools, established laws,Kindly and just and true to freedom’s cause;Resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts,In war, as well as peace, played well their parts.Their men were brave; their women pure and true;Their sons ashamed no honest work to do;And while they dreamed no dreams of being great,They did great deeds, and conquered hostile Fate.We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day;At their graves, as their right, tearful homage we pay!And the laurel-crowned Present comes humbly at last,And bends by our side at the shrine of the Past.With the hands that such burdens unshrinking have borne,From the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn,She takes off the chaplet, and lays it with tears,That she cares not to hide, at the feet of the Years.Hark! a breath of faint music, a murmur of song!A form of strange beauty is floating alongOn the soft summer air, and the Future draws near,With a light on her young face, unshadowed and clear.Two garlands she bears in the arms that not yetHave toiled ’neath the burden and heat of the day;Lo! both are of amaranth, fragrant and wetWith the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway.Oh! well may we hush our vain babblings—and wait!He who merits the crown, wears it sooner or late!On the brow of the Present, the grave of the Past,The wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last!

O woman-form, majestic, strong and fair,Sitting enthroned where in upper airThy mountain-peaks in solemn grandeur rise,Piercing the splendor of the summer skies—Vermont! Our mighty mother, crowned to-dayIn all the glory of thy hundred years,If thou dost bid me sing, how can I but obey?What though the lips may tremble, and the verseThat fain would grandly thy grand deeds rehearseMay trip and falter, and the stammering tongueLeave all unrhymed the rhymes that should be sung?I can but do thy bidding, as is meet,Bowing in humble homage at thy feet—Thy royal feet—and if my words are weak,O crownèd One, ’twas thou didst bid me speak!

Yet what is there to say,Even on this proud day,This day of days, that hath not oft been said?What song is there to singThat hath not oft been sung?What laurel can we bringThat ages have not hungA thousand times above their glorious dead?What crown to crown the livingIs left us for our giving,That is not shaped to other browsThat wore it long ago?Our very vows but echo vowsBreathed centuries ago!Earth has no choral strain,No sweet or sad refrain,No lofty pæan swelling loud and clear,That Virgil did not know,Or Danté, wandering slowIn mystic trances, did not pause to hear!When gods from high Olympus cameTo touch old Homer’s lips with flame,The morning stars together sungTo teach their raptures to his tongue.For him the lonely ocean moaned;For him the mighty winds intonedTheir deep-voiced chantings, and for himSweet flower-bells pealed in forests dim.From earth and sea and sky he caughtThe spell of their divinest thought,While yet it blossomed fresh and newAs Eden’s rosebuds wet with dew!Oh! to have lived when earth was young,With all its melodies unsung!The dome of heaven bent nearer thenWhen gods and angels talked with men—When Song itself was newly born,The Incarnation of the Morn!But now, alas! all thought is old,All life is but a story told,And poet-tongues are manifold;And he is bold who tries to wake,Even for God or Country’s sake,In voice, or pen, or lute, or lyre,Sparks of the old Promethean fire!

And yet—O Earth, thank God!—the soul of songIs as immortal as the eternal stars!O trembling heart! take courage and be strong.Hark! to a voice from yonder crystal bars:“Did the roses blow last June?Do the stars still rise and set?And over the crests of the mountainsAre the light clouds floating yet?Do the rivers run to the seaWith a deep, resistless flow?Do the little birds sing north and southAs the seasons come and go?Are the hills as fair as of old?Are the skies as blue and far?Have you lost the pomp of the sunset,Or the light of the evening star?Has the glory gone from the morning?Do the wild winds wail no more?Is there now no thunder of billowsBeating the storm-lashed shore?Is Love a forgotten story?Is Passion a jester’s theme?Has Valor thrown down its armor?Is Honor an idle dream?Is there no pure trust in woman?No conquering faith in God?Are there no feet strong to followIn the paths the martyrs trod?Did you find no hero gravesWhen your violets bloomed last May—Prouder than those of Marathon,Or ‘old Platea’s day’?When your red and white and blueOn the free winds fluttered out,Were there no strong hearts and voicesTo receive it with a shout?Oh! let the Earth grow old!And the burning stars grow cold!And, if you will, declare man’s story told!Yet, pure as faith is pure,And sure as death is sure,As long as love shall live, shall song endure!”

And yet—O Earth, thank God!—the soul of songIs as immortal as the eternal stars!O trembling heart! take courage and be strong.Hark! to a voice from yonder crystal bars:

“Did the roses blow last June?Do the stars still rise and set?And over the crests of the mountainsAre the light clouds floating yet?Do the rivers run to the seaWith a deep, resistless flow?Do the little birds sing north and southAs the seasons come and go?

Are the hills as fair as of old?Are the skies as blue and far?Have you lost the pomp of the sunset,Or the light of the evening star?Has the glory gone from the morning?Do the wild winds wail no more?Is there now no thunder of billowsBeating the storm-lashed shore?

Is Love a forgotten story?Is Passion a jester’s theme?Has Valor thrown down its armor?Is Honor an idle dream?Is there no pure trust in woman?No conquering faith in God?Are there no feet strong to followIn the paths the martyrs trod?

Did you find no hero gravesWhen your violets bloomed last May—Prouder than those of Marathon,Or ‘old Platea’s day’?When your red and white and blueOn the free winds fluttered out,Were there no strong hearts and voicesTo receive it with a shout?Oh! let the Earth grow old!And the burning stars grow cold!And, if you will, declare man’s story told!Yet, pure as faith is pure,And sure as death is sure,As long as love shall live, shall song endure!”

When, one by one, the stately, silent YearsGlide like pale ghosts beyond our yearning sight,Vainly we stretch our arms to stay their flight,So soon, so swift they pass to endless night!We hardly learn to name them,To praise them or to blame them,To know their shadowy faces,Ere we see their empty places!Only once the glad Spring greets them;Only once fair Summer meets them;Only once the Autumn gloryTells for them its mystic story;Only once the Winter hoaryWeaves for them its robes of light!Years leave their work half-done; like men, alas!With sheaves ungathered to their graves they pass,And are forgotten. What they strive to doLives for a while in memory of a few;Then over all Oblivion’s waters flow—The Years are buried in the long ago!But when a Century dies, what room is there for tears?Rather in solemn exaltation let us come,With roll of drum(Not muffled as in woe),With blare of bugles, and the liquid flowOf silver clarions, and the long appealOf the clear trumpets ringing peal on peal;With clash of bells, and hosts in proud array,To pay meet homage to its burial day!For its proud work is done. Its name is writWhere all the ages that come after itShall read the eternal letters, blazoned highOn the blue dome of the impartial sky.What ruthless fate can darken its renown,Or dim the lustre of its starry crown?On mountain-peaks of Time each Century stands alone;And each, for glory or for shame, hath reaped what it hath sown!

But this—the one that gave thee birthA hundred years ago, O beauteous mother!This mighty Century had a mightier brother,Who from the watching earthPassed but last year! Twin-born indeed were they—For what are twelve months to the womb of timePregnant with ages?—Hand in hand they climbedWith clear, young eyes uplifted to the stars;With great, strong souls that never stopped for bars,Through storm and darkness up to glorious day!Each knew the other’s need; each in his breastThe subtle tie of closest kin confessed;Counted the other’s honor as his own;Nor feared to sit upon a separate throne;Nor loved each other less when—wondrous fate!—One gave a Nation life, and one a State!

Oh! rude the cradle in which each was rocked,The infant Nation, and the infant State!Rough nurses were the Centuries, that mockedAt mother-kisses, and for mother-armsGave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms,Quick blows and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait,Often in cold and hunger, while the feastWas spread for others, and, though last not least,Gave them sharp swords for playthings, and the dinOf actual battle for the mimic strifeThat childhood glories in!Yet not the less they loved them. Spartans they,Who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood.Better the forest’s awful solitude,Better the desert spaces, where the dayWanders from dawn to dusk and finds no life!

But over all the tireless years swept on,Till side by side the Centuries grew old,And the young Nation, great and strong and bold,Forgot its early struggles, in triumphs later won!It stretched its arms from East to West;It gathered to its mighty breastFrom every clime, from every soil,The hunted sons of want and toil;It gave to each a dwelling-place;It blent them in one common race;And over all, from sea to sea,Wide flew the banner of the free!It did not fear the wrath of kings,Nor the dread grip of deadlier things—Gaunt Famine with its ghastly horde,Dishonor sheathing its foul sword,Nor faithless friend, nor treacherous blowStruck in the dark by stealthy foe;For over all its wide domain,From shore to shore, from main to main,From vale to mountain-top, it sawThe reign of plenty, peace, and law!

Thus fared the Nation, prosperous, great, and free,Prophet and herald of the good to be;And on its humbler way, in calm content,The lesser State, the while, serenely went.Safe in her mountain fastnesses she dwelt,Her life’s first cares forgot, its woes unfelt,And thought her bitterest tears had all been shed,For peace was in her borders, and God reigned overhead.

But suddenly over the hills there cameA cry that rent her with grief and shame—A cry from the Nation in sore distress,Stricken down in the pride of its mightiness!With passionate ardor up she sprang,And her voice like the peal of a trumpet rang—“What ho! what ho! brave sons of mine,Strong with the strength of the mountain pine!To the front of the battle, away! away!The Nation is bleeding in deadly fray,The Nation, it may be, is dying to-day!On, then, to the rescue! away! away!”

Ah! how they answered let the ages tell,For they shall guard the sacred story well!Green grows the grass to-day on many a battle-field;War’s dread alarms are o’er; its scars are healed;Its bitter agony has found surcease;A re-united land clasps hands in peace.But, oh! ye blessed dead, whose graves are strownFrom where our forests make perpetual moan,To those far shores where smiling Southern seasGive back soft murmurs to the fragrant breeze—Oh! ye who drained for us the bitter cup,Think ye we can forget what ye have offered up?The years will come and go, and other centuries die,And generation after generation lieDown in the dust; but, long as stars shall shine,Long as Vermont’s green hills shall bear the pine,As long as Killington shall proudly liftIts lofty peak above the storm-cloud’s rift,Or Mansfield hail the blue, o’erarching skies,Or fair Mount Anthony in grandeur rise,So long shall live the deeds that ye have done,So deathless be the glory ye have won!

Not with exultant joyAnd pride without alloy,Did the twin Centuries rejoice when all was o’er.What though the Nation roseTriumphant o’er its foes?What though the State had gainedThe meed of faith unstained?Their mighty hearts remembered the dead that came no more!Remembered all the losses,The weary, weary crosses,Remembered earth was poorer for the blood that had been shed,And knew that it was sadder for the story it had read!So, clasping hands with somewhat saddened mien,And eyes uplifted to the Great UnseenThat rules alike o’er Centuries and men,Onward they walked serenely toward—the End!

One reached it last year. Ye remember well—The wondrous tale there is no need to tell—How the whole world bowed down beside its bier;How all the Nations came, from far or near,Heaping their treasures on its mighty pall—Never had kingliest king such funeral!Old Asia rose, and, girding her in haste,Swept in her jewelled robes across the waste,And called to Egypt lying prone and hidWhere waits the Sphinx beside the pyramid;Fair Europe came with overflowing hands,Bearing the riches of her many lands;Dark Afric, laden with her virgin gold,Yet laden deeper with her woes untold;Japan and China in grotesque array,And all the enchanted islands of Cathay!

To-day the other dies.It walked in humbler guise,Nor stood where all men’s eyesWere fixed upon it.Earth may not pause to layA wreath upon its bier,Nor the world heed to-dayOur dead that lieth here!Yet well they loved each other—It and its greater brother.To loftiest stature grown,Each earned its own renown;Each sought of Time a crown,And each has won it;

To-day the other dies.It walked in humbler guise,Nor stood where all men’s eyesWere fixed upon it.Earth may not pause to layA wreath upon its bier,Nor the world heed to-dayOur dead that lieth here!

Yet well they loved each other—It and its greater brother.To loftiest stature grown,Each earned its own renown;Each sought of Time a crown,And each has won it;

But what to us are Centuries dead,And rolling Years forever fled,Compared with thee, O grand and fairVermont—our Goddess-mother?Strong with the strength of thy verdant hills,Fresh with the freshness of mountain-rills,Pure as the breath of the fragrant pine,Glad with the gladness of youth divine,Serenely thou sittest throned to-dayWhere the free winds that round thee playRejoice in thy waves of sun-bright hair,O thou, our glorious mother!Rejoice in thy beautiful strength and sayEarth holds not such another!Thou art not old with thy hundred years,Nor worn with toil, or care, or tears:But all the glow of the summer-timeIs thine to-day in thy glorious prime!Thy brow is fair as the winter-snows,With a stately calm in its still repose;While the breath of the rose the wild bee sips,Half-mad with joy, cannot eclipseThe marvellous sweetness of thy lips;And the deepest blue of the laughing skiesHides in the depths of thy fearless eyes,Gazing afar over land and seaWherever thy wandering children be!Fold on fold,Over thy form of grandest mouldFloweth thy robe of forest green,Now light, now dark, in its emerald sheen.Its broidered hem is of wild flowers rare,With feathery fern-fronds light as airFringing its borders. In thy hairSprays of the pink arbutus twine,And the curling rings of the wild grape vine.Thy girdle is woven of silver streams;Its clasp with the opaline lustre gleamsOf a lake asleep in the sunset beams;And, half concealingAnd half revealing,Floats over all a veil of mistPale-tinted with rose and amethyst!

Arise, O noble mother of great sons,Worthy to rank among earth’s mightiest ones,And daughters fair and beautiful and good,Yet wise and strong in loftiest womanhood—Rise from thy throne, and, standing far and highOutlined against the blue, adoring sky,Lift up thy voice, and stretch thy loving handsIn benediction o’er the waiting lands!Take thou our fealty! at thy feet we bow,Glad to renew each oft-repeated vow!No costly gifts we bring to thee to-day;No votive wreaths upon thy shrine we lay;Take thou our hearts, then!—hearts that fain would beFrom this day forth, O goddess, worthier thee!

Brothers, is this the spot?Let the drums cease to beat;Let the tread of marching feet,With the clash and clang of steelAnd the trumpet’s long appeal(Cry of joy and sob of painIn its passionate refrain)Cease awhile,Nor beguileThoughts that would rehearse the storyOf the past’s remembered glory;Thoughts that would revive to-dayStern War’s rude, imperious sway;Waken battle’s fiery glowWith its ardor and its woe,With its wild, exulting thrills,With the rush of mighty wills,And the strength to do and dare—Born of passion and of prayer!

Let the present fade away,And the splendors of to-day;For our hearts within us burnAs our glances backward turn.What rare memories awakenAs the tree of life is shaken,And its storied branches blowIn the winds of long ago!Do ye not remember, brothers,Ere the war-days how ’twas saidGrand, heroic days were overAnd proud chivalry was dead?Still we saw the glittering lancesGleaming through the old romances,Still beheld the watch-fires burningOn the cloudy heights of Time;And from fields that they had won,When the stormy fight was done,Saw victorious knights returningFlushed with triumph’s joy sublime!For the light of song and storyKindled with supernal gloryPlains where ancient heroes fought;And illumined, with a splendorRare and magical and tender,All the mighty deeds they wrought.But we thought the sword of battle,Long unused, had lost its glow,And the sullen war-gods slumberedWhere their altar-fires burned low!

Wasthe nation dull and sodden,Buried in material things?’Twas the chrysalis, awaitingThe sure stirring of its wings!For when rang the thrilling war-cryOver all the startled land,And the fiery cross of battle,Flaming, sped from hand to hand,Then how fared it, O my brothers?Were men false or craven then?Did they falter?Did they palter?Did they question why or when?Oh, the story shall be toldUntil earth itself is old,How, from mountain and from glen,More than thrice ten thousand menHeard the challenge of the foe,Heard the nation’s cry of woe,Heard the summoning to arms,And the battle’s loud alarms!In tumultuous surprise,Lo, their answer rent the skies;And its quick and strong heart-thrillsRocked the everlasting hills!Forth from blossoming fields they spedTo the fields with carnage red!Left the plowshare standing still;Left the bench, the forge, the mill;Left the quiet walks of tradeAnd the quarry’s marble shade;Left the pulpit and the court,Careless ease and idle sport;Left the student’s cloistered hallsIn the old, gray college walls;Left young love-dreams, dear and sweet,War’s stern front, unblenched, to meet!Oh, the strange and sad amazeOf those unforgotten days,When the boys whom we had guided,Nursed and loved, caressed and chided,Suddenly, as in a night,Sprang to manhood’s proudest height;And with calmly smiling lips,As who life’s rarest goblet sips,Dauntless, with unhurried breath,Marched to danger and to death!

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