If fancy plumes aerial flight,Go fix thy restless mindOn learning's lore and wisdom's might,And live to bless mankind.The sword is sheathed, 'tis freedom's hour,No despot bears misrule,Where knowledge plants the foot of powerIn our God-blessed free school.Forth from this fount the streamlets flow,That widen in their course.Hero and sage arise to showScience the mighty source,And laud the land whose talents rockThe cradle of her power,And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock,From erudition's bower.Farther than feet of chamois fall,Free as the generous air,Strains nobler far than clarion callWake freedom's welcome, whereMinerva's silver sandals stillAre loosed, and not effete;Where echoes still my day-dreams thrill,Woke by her fancied feet.
If fancy plumes aerial flight,Go fix thy restless mindOn learning's lore and wisdom's might,And live to bless mankind.The sword is sheathed, 'tis freedom's hour,No despot bears misrule,Where knowledge plants the foot of powerIn our God-blessed free school.
Forth from this fount the streamlets flow,That widen in their course.Hero and sage arise to showScience the mighty source,And laud the land whose talents rockThe cradle of her power,And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock,From erudition's bower.
Farther than feet of chamois fall,Free as the generous air,Strains nobler far than clarion callWake freedom's welcome, whereMinerva's silver sandals stillAre loosed, and not effete;Where echoes still my day-dreams thrill,Woke by her fancied feet.
Wild spirit of song,—midst the zephyrs at playIn bowers of beauty,—I bend to thy lay,And woo, while I worship in deep sylvan spot,The Muses' soft echoes to kindle the grot.Wake chords of my lyre, with musical kiss,To vibrate and tremble with accents of bliss.Here morning peers out, from her crimson repose,On proud Prairie Queen and the modest Moss-rose;And vesper reclines—when the dewdrop is shedOn the heart of the pink—in its odorous bed;But Flora has stolen the rainbow and sky,To sprinkle the flowers with exquisite dye.Here fame-honored hickory rears his bold form,And bares a brave breast to the lightning and storm,While palm, bay, and laurel, in classical glee,Chase tulip, magnolia, and fragrant fringe-tree;And sturdy horse-chestnut for centuries hath givenIts feathery blossom and branches to heaven.Here is life! Here is youth! Here the poet's world-wish,—Cool waters at play with the gold-gleaming fish;While cactus a mellower glory receivesFrom light colored softly by blossom and leaves;And nestling alder is whispering low,In lap of the pear-tree, with musical flow.[1]Dark sentinel hedgerow is guarding repose,Midst grotto and songlet and streamlet that flowsWhere beauty and perfume from buds burst away,And ope their closed cells to the bright, laughing day;Yet, dwellers in Eden, earth yields you her tear,—Oft plucked for the banquet, but laid on the bier.Earth's beauty and glory delude as the shrineOr fount of real joy and of visions divine;But hope, as the eaglet that spurneth the sod,May soar above matter, to fasten on God,And freely adore all His spirit hath made,Where rapture and radiance and glory ne'er fade.Oh, give me the spot where affection may dwellIn sacred communion with home's magic spell!Where flowers of feeling are fragrant and fair,And those we most love find a happiness rare;But clouds are a presage,—they darken my lay:This life is a shadow, and hastens away.
Wild spirit of song,—midst the zephyrs at playIn bowers of beauty,—I bend to thy lay,And woo, while I worship in deep sylvan spot,The Muses' soft echoes to kindle the grot.Wake chords of my lyre, with musical kiss,To vibrate and tremble with accents of bliss.
Here morning peers out, from her crimson repose,On proud Prairie Queen and the modest Moss-rose;And vesper reclines—when the dewdrop is shedOn the heart of the pink—in its odorous bed;But Flora has stolen the rainbow and sky,To sprinkle the flowers with exquisite dye.
Here fame-honored hickory rears his bold form,And bares a brave breast to the lightning and storm,While palm, bay, and laurel, in classical glee,Chase tulip, magnolia, and fragrant fringe-tree;And sturdy horse-chestnut for centuries hath givenIts feathery blossom and branches to heaven.
Here is life! Here is youth! Here the poet's world-wish,—Cool waters at play with the gold-gleaming fish;While cactus a mellower glory receivesFrom light colored softly by blossom and leaves;And nestling alder is whispering low,In lap of the pear-tree, with musical flow.[1]
Dark sentinel hedgerow is guarding repose,Midst grotto and songlet and streamlet that flowsWhere beauty and perfume from buds burst away,And ope their closed cells to the bright, laughing day;Yet, dwellers in Eden, earth yields you her tear,—Oft plucked for the banquet, but laid on the bier.
Earth's beauty and glory delude as the shrineOr fount of real joy and of visions divine;But hope, as the eaglet that spurneth the sod,May soar above matter, to fasten on God,And freely adore all His spirit hath made,Where rapture and radiance and glory ne'er fade.
Oh, give me the spot where affection may dwellIn sacred communion with home's magic spell!Where flowers of feeling are fragrant and fair,And those we most love find a happiness rare;But clouds are a presage,—they darken my lay:This life is a shadow, and hastens away.
[1]An alder growing from the bent branch of a pear-tree.
[1]An alder growing from the bent branch of a pear-tree.
O Sing me that song! My spirit is sad,Life's pulses move fitful and slow;A meeting with loved ones in dreams I have had,Whose robes were as spotless as snow:A phantom of joy, it fled with the light,And left but a parting in air.My soul is enchained to life's dreary night,O sing me "Sweet hour of prayer"!Ah, sleep, twin sister of death and of night!My thoughts 'neath thy drap'ry still lie.Alas! that from dreams so boundless and brightWe waken to life's dreary sigh.Those moments most sweet are fleetest alway,For love claspeth earth's raptures not long,Till darkness and death like mist melt away,To rise to a seraph's new song.O'er ocean or Alps, the stranger who roamsBut gathers a wreath for his bier;For life hath its music in low minor tones,Andmanis the cause of its tear.But drops of pure nectar our brimming cup fill,When we walk by that murmuring stream;Or when, like the thrill of that mountain rill,Your songs float in memory's dream.Sweet spirit of love, at soft eventideWake gently the chords of her lyre,And whisper of one who sat by her sideTo join with the neighboring choir;And tell how that heart is silent and sad,No melody sweeps o'er its strings!'Tis breaking alone, but a young heart and glad—Might cheer it, perchance, when she sings.Lynn, Mass.,August 25, 1866.
O Sing me that song! My spirit is sad,Life's pulses move fitful and slow;A meeting with loved ones in dreams I have had,Whose robes were as spotless as snow:A phantom of joy, it fled with the light,And left but a parting in air.My soul is enchained to life's dreary night,O sing me "Sweet hour of prayer"!
Ah, sleep, twin sister of death and of night!My thoughts 'neath thy drap'ry still lie.Alas! that from dreams so boundless and brightWe waken to life's dreary sigh.Those moments most sweet are fleetest alway,For love claspeth earth's raptures not long,Till darkness and death like mist melt away,To rise to a seraph's new song.
O'er ocean or Alps, the stranger who roamsBut gathers a wreath for his bier;For life hath its music in low minor tones,Andmanis the cause of its tear.But drops of pure nectar our brimming cup fill,When we walk by that murmuring stream;Or when, like the thrill of that mountain rill,Your songs float in memory's dream.
Sweet spirit of love, at soft eventideWake gently the chords of her lyre,And whisper of one who sat by her sideTo join with the neighboring choir;And tell how that heart is silent and sad,No melody sweeps o'er its strings!'Tis breaking alone, but a young heart and glad—Might cheer it, perchance, when she sings.
Lynn, Mass.,August 25, 1866.
Lynn, Mass.,August 25, 1866.
Ah, why should the brief bliss of life's little dayGrow cold in this spot as the spiritless clay,And thought be at work with the long-buried hours,And tears be bedewing these fresh-smiling flowers!Ah, wherefore the memory of dear ones deemed deadShould bow thee, as winds bow the tall willow's head!Beside you they walk while you weep, and but passFrom your sight as the shade o'er the dark wavy grass.The cypress may mourn with her evergreen tears,And, like the blue hyacinth, change not with years;Yea, flowers of feeling may blossom above,To yield earth the fragrance of goodness and love;So one heart is left me—she breathes in my ear,"I'm living to bless thee; for this are we here."And when this sweet pledge to my lone heart was given,Earth held but this joy, or this happiness heaven!Here the rock and the sea and the tall waving pineEnchant deep the senses,—subduing, sublime;Yet stronger than these is the spell that hath powerTo sweep o'er the heartstrings in memory's hour.Of the past 'tis the talisman, whenwe three met,When the star of our friendship arose not to set;And pure as its rising, and bright as the star,Be its course through our heavens, whether near or afar.Lynn, Mass.,August 24, 1865.
Ah, why should the brief bliss of life's little dayGrow cold in this spot as the spiritless clay,And thought be at work with the long-buried hours,And tears be bedewing these fresh-smiling flowers!
Ah, wherefore the memory of dear ones deemed deadShould bow thee, as winds bow the tall willow's head!Beside you they walk while you weep, and but passFrom your sight as the shade o'er the dark wavy grass.
The cypress may mourn with her evergreen tears,And, like the blue hyacinth, change not with years;Yea, flowers of feeling may blossom above,To yield earth the fragrance of goodness and love;
So one heart is left me—she breathes in my ear,"I'm living to bless thee; for this are we here."And when this sweet pledge to my lone heart was given,Earth held but this joy, or this happiness heaven!
Here the rock and the sea and the tall waving pineEnchant deep the senses,—subduing, sublime;Yet stronger than these is the spell that hath powerTo sweep o'er the heartstrings in memory's hour.
Of the past 'tis the talisman, whenwe three met,When the star of our friendship arose not to set;And pure as its rising, and bright as the star,Be its course through our heavens, whether near or afar.
Lynn, Mass.,August 24, 1865.
Lynn, Mass.,August 24, 1865.
Mother's New Year Gift to the Little Children
Father-Mother God,Loving me,—Guard me when I sleep;Guide my little feetUp to Thee.
Father-Mother God,Loving me,—Guard me when I sleep;Guide my little feetUp to Thee.
To the Big Children
Father-Mother good, lovinglyThee I seek,—Patient, meek,In the way Thou hast,—Be it slow or fast,Up to Thee.
Father-Mother good, lovinglyThee I seek,—Patient, meek,In the way Thou hast,—Be it slow or fast,Up to Thee.
Beyond the clouds, awayIn the dim distance, layA bright and golden showerAt sunset's radiant hour,—Like to the soul's glad immortality,Making this life divine,Making its waters wine,Giving the glory that eye cannot see.In God there is no night,—Truth is eternal light,A help forever near;For sinless sense is hereIn Truth, the Life, the Principle of man.Away, then, mortal sense!Then, error, get thee hence,Thy discord ne'er in harmony began!Immortal Truth,—since heaven rang,The while the glad stars sangTo hail creation's glorious morn—As when this babe was born,A painless heraldry of Soul, not sense,—Shine on our 'wildered way,Give God's idea sway,And sickness, sin, and death are banished hence.Lynn, Mass.,April, 1871.
Beyond the clouds, awayIn the dim distance, layA bright and golden showerAt sunset's radiant hour,—Like to the soul's glad immortality,Making this life divine,Making its waters wine,Giving the glory that eye cannot see.
In God there is no night,—Truth is eternal light,A help forever near;For sinless sense is hereIn Truth, the Life, the Principle of man.Away, then, mortal sense!Then, error, get thee hence,Thy discord ne'er in harmony began!
Immortal Truth,—since heaven rang,The while the glad stars sangTo hail creation's glorious morn—As when this babe was born,A painless heraldry of Soul, not sense,—Shine on our 'wildered way,Give God's idea sway,And sickness, sin, and death are banished hence.
Lynn, Mass.,April, 1871.
Lynn, Mass.,April, 1871.
This is the hour they then foretold—When earth, inebriate with crime,Laughed right to scorn, and guilt, grown bold,Knelt worshiping at mammon's shrine.This is the hour! Corruption's bandIs driven back; and periled right,Rescued by the "fanatic" hand,Spans our broad heaven of light.Righteousness ne'er—awestruck or dumb—Feared for an hour the tyrant's heel!Injustice to the combat sprang;God to the rescue—Liberty, peal!Joy is in every belfry bell—Joy for the captive! Sound it long!Ye who have wept fourscore can tellThe holy meaning of their song.'Tis freedom's birthday—blood-bought boon!O war-rent flag! O soldier-shroud!Thine be the glory—nor too soonIs heard your "Cry aloud!"O not too soon is rent the chainAnd charter, trampling right in dust!Till God is God no longer—ne'er againQuench liberty that's just.Lynn, Mass.,February 3, 1865.
This is the hour they then foretold—When earth, inebriate with crime,Laughed right to scorn, and guilt, grown bold,Knelt worshiping at mammon's shrine.
This is the hour! Corruption's bandIs driven back; and periled right,Rescued by the "fanatic" hand,Spans our broad heaven of light.
Righteousness ne'er—awestruck or dumb—Feared for an hour the tyrant's heel!Injustice to the combat sprang;God to the rescue—Liberty, peal!
Joy is in every belfry bell—Joy for the captive! Sound it long!Ye who have wept fourscore can tellThe holy meaning of their song.
'Tis freedom's birthday—blood-bought boon!O war-rent flag! O soldier-shroud!Thine be the glory—nor too soonIs heard your "Cry aloud!"
O not too soon is rent the chainAnd charter, trampling right in dust!Till God is God no longer—ne'er againQuench liberty that's just.
Lynn, Mass.,February 3, 1865.
Lynn, Mass.,February 3, 1865.
Respectfully inscribed to my friends in Lynn.I come to theeO'er the moonlit sea,When the hoarse wave revisits thy shore!When waters shout,And the stars peep out,I am with thee in spirit once more.Then list the moanOf the billows' foam,Laving with surges thy silv'ry beach!Night's dewy eye,The sea-mew's lone cry,Witness my presence and utter my speech.Pleasant a graveBy the "Rock" or wave,And afar from life's turmoil its goal.No sculptured lie,Or hypocrite sigh,E'er to mock the bright truth of the soul.Friends, will not yeThink kindly of me,In those moments to memory bestowed?Smile on me yet,O blue eyes and jet,Soft as when parting thy sympathy glowed!March 3, 1867.
Respectfully inscribed to my friends in Lynn.
Respectfully inscribed to my friends in Lynn.
I come to theeO'er the moonlit sea,When the hoarse wave revisits thy shore!When waters shout,And the stars peep out,I am with thee in spirit once more.
Then list the moanOf the billows' foam,Laving with surges thy silv'ry beach!Night's dewy eye,The sea-mew's lone cry,Witness my presence and utter my speech.
Pleasant a graveBy the "Rock" or wave,And afar from life's turmoil its goal.No sculptured lie,Or hypocrite sigh,E'er to mock the bright truth of the soul.
Friends, will not yeThink kindly of me,In those moments to memory bestowed?Smile on me yet,O blue eyes and jet,Soft as when parting thy sympathy glowed!
March 3, 1867.
March 3, 1867.
Saw ye my Saviour? Heard ye the glad sound?Felt ye the power of the Word?'Twas the Truth that made us free,And was found by you and meIn the life and the love of our Lord.Mourner, it calls you,—"Come to my bosom,Love wipes your tears all away,And will lift the shade of gloom,And for you make radiant roomMidst the glories of one endless day."Sinner, it calls you,—"Come to this fountain,Cleanse the foul senses within;'Tis the Spirit that makes pure,That exalts thee, and will cureAll thy sorrow and sickness and sin."Strongest deliverer, friend of the friendless,Life of all being divine:Thou the Christ, and not the creed;Thou the Truth in thought and deed;Thou the water, the bread, and the wine.
Saw ye my Saviour? Heard ye the glad sound?Felt ye the power of the Word?'Twas the Truth that made us free,And was found by you and meIn the life and the love of our Lord.
Mourner, it calls you,—"Come to my bosom,Love wipes your tears all away,And will lift the shade of gloom,And for you make radiant roomMidst the glories of one endless day."
Sinner, it calls you,—"Come to this fountain,Cleanse the foul senses within;'Tis the Spirit that makes pure,That exalts thee, and will cureAll thy sorrow and sickness and sin."
Strongest deliverer, friend of the friendless,Life of all being divine:Thou the Christ, and not the creed;Thou the Truth in thought and deed;Thou the water, the bread, and the wine.
The laying of the corner-stone of The Mother Church.Laus Deo, it is done!Rolled away from loving heartIs a stone.Lifted higher, we depart,Having one.Laus Deo,—on this rock(Heaven chiseled squarely good)Stands His church,—God is Love, and understoodBy His flock.Laus Deo, night star-litSlumbers not in God's embrace;Be awake;Like this stone, be in thy place:Stand, not sit.Grave, silent, steadfast stone,Dirge and song and shoutings lowIn thy heartDwell serene,—and sorrow? No,It has none,Laus Deo!
The laying of the corner-stone of The Mother Church.
The laying of the corner-stone of The Mother Church.
Laus Deo, it is done!Rolled away from loving heartIs a stone.Lifted higher, we depart,Having one.
Laus Deo,—on this rock(Heaven chiseled squarely good)Stands His church,—God is Love, and understoodBy His flock.
Laus Deo, night star-litSlumbers not in God's embrace;Be awake;Like this stone, be in thy place:Stand, not sit.
Grave, silent, steadfast stone,Dirge and song and shoutings lowIn thy heartDwell serene,—and sorrow? No,It has none,Laus Deo!
God of the rolling year! to Thee we raiseA nation's holiest hymn in grateful praise!Plenty and peace abound at Thy behest,Yet wherefore this Thy love? Thou knowest best!Thou who, impartial, blessings spreadst abroad,Thou wisdom, Love, and Truth,—divinely God!Who giveth joy and tears, conflict and rest,Teaching us thus of Thee, who knowest best!Ruler Supreme! to Thee we'll meekly bow,When we have learned of Truth what Thou doest now—Why from this festive hour some dear lost guestBears hence its sunlit glow—Thou knowest best!How have our honored dead fought on in gloom!Peace her white wings will spread over their tomb;Why waited their reward, triumph and rest,Till molds the hero form? Thou knowest best!Shades of our heroes! the Union now is one,The star whose destiny none may outrun;Tears of the bleeding slave poured on her breast,When to be wiped away, Thou knowest best!Thou who in the Christ hallowed its grief,—O meekest of mourners, while yet the chief,—Give to the pleading hearts comfort and rest,In that benediction which knoweth best!Lynn, Mass.,December 7, 1865.
God of the rolling year! to Thee we raiseA nation's holiest hymn in grateful praise!Plenty and peace abound at Thy behest,Yet wherefore this Thy love? Thou knowest best!
Thou who, impartial, blessings spreadst abroad,Thou wisdom, Love, and Truth,—divinely God!Who giveth joy and tears, conflict and rest,Teaching us thus of Thee, who knowest best!
Ruler Supreme! to Thee we'll meekly bow,When we have learned of Truth what Thou doest now—Why from this festive hour some dear lost guestBears hence its sunlit glow—Thou knowest best!
How have our honored dead fought on in gloom!Peace her white wings will spread over their tomb;Why waited their reward, triumph and rest,Till molds the hero form? Thou knowest best!
Shades of our heroes! the Union now is one,The star whose destiny none may outrun;Tears of the bleeding slave poured on her breast,When to be wiped away, Thou knowest best!
Thou who in the Christ hallowed its grief,—O meekest of mourners, while yet the chief,—Give to the pleading hearts comfort and rest,In that benediction which knoweth best!
Lynn, Mass.,December 7, 1865.
Lynn, Mass.,December 7, 1865.
It matters not what be thy lot,So Love doth guide;For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,Whate'er betide.And of these stones, or tyrants' thrones,God able isTo raise up seed—in thought and deed—To faithful His.Aye, darkling sense, arise, go hence!Our God is good.False fears are foes—truth tatters those,When understood.Love looseth thee, and lifteth me,Ayont hate's thrall:There Life is light, and wisdom might,And God is All.The centuries break, the earth-bound wake,God's glorified!Who doth His will—His likeness still—Is satisfied.Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,January, 1900.
It matters not what be thy lot,So Love doth guide;For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,Whate'er betide.
And of these stones, or tyrants' thrones,God able isTo raise up seed—in thought and deed—To faithful His.
Aye, darkling sense, arise, go hence!Our God is good.False fears are foes—truth tatters those,When understood.
Love looseth thee, and lifteth me,Ayont hate's thrall:There Life is light, and wisdom might,And God is All.
The centuries break, the earth-bound wake,God's glorified!Who doth His will—His likeness still—Is satisfied.
Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,January, 1900.
Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,January, 1900.