Hero, whose ashes sleepBy Vernon’s sacred steep,Sire of the free!To-day thy name be blessedNorth, South, East and West,And swell each patriot’s breastWith love to thee.Through tempests drear and darkThe Union’s holy arkThy hand did guide;The ark which rode the floodOf Revolution’s bloodFor freedom’s mighty GodWas on thy side.Where’er thy eagles flewThe world our glory knewIn war and peace.Safe ’neath the fig and vineOur fathers did recline,And field and wave and mineGave rich increase.Oh, that to-day might yieldOnce more the sword and shieldOf Washington!Then freedom’s songs sublimeShould peal in thrilling chimeAnd, ’til remotest time,The States be one.
Hero, whose ashes sleepBy Vernon’s sacred steep,Sire of the free!To-day thy name be blessedNorth, South, East and West,And swell each patriot’s breastWith love to thee.Through tempests drear and darkThe Union’s holy arkThy hand did guide;The ark which rode the floodOf Revolution’s bloodFor freedom’s mighty GodWas on thy side.Where’er thy eagles flewThe world our glory knewIn war and peace.Safe ’neath the fig and vineOur fathers did recline,And field and wave and mineGave rich increase.Oh, that to-day might yieldOnce more the sword and shieldOf Washington!Then freedom’s songs sublimeShould peal in thrilling chimeAnd, ’til remotest time,The States be one.
Hero, whose ashes sleepBy Vernon’s sacred steep,Sire of the free!To-day thy name be blessedNorth, South, East and West,And swell each patriot’s breastWith love to thee.
Through tempests drear and darkThe Union’s holy arkThy hand did guide;The ark which rode the floodOf Revolution’s bloodFor freedom’s mighty GodWas on thy side.
Where’er thy eagles flewThe world our glory knewIn war and peace.Safe ’neath the fig and vineOur fathers did recline,And field and wave and mineGave rich increase.
Oh, that to-day might yieldOnce more the sword and shieldOf Washington!Then freedom’s songs sublimeShould peal in thrilling chimeAnd, ’til remotest time,The States be one.
[Dedicated to the Weather Bureau.]
Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools,I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet,While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet.A thousand misses in the boarding-schoolsNow do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper,And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper.The clear lake like a polished mirror glowsIn the seraphic loveliness of morn;The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools,Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn;On every hand new beauties still are born,Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blazeIllumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays.
Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools,I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet,While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet.A thousand misses in the boarding-schoolsNow do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper,And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper.The clear lake like a polished mirror glowsIn the seraphic loveliness of morn;The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools,Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn;On every hand new beauties still are born,Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blazeIllumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays.
Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools,I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet,While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet.A thousand misses in the boarding-schoolsNow do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper,And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper.The clear lake like a polished mirror glowsIn the seraphic loveliness of morn;The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools,Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn;On every hand new beauties still are born,Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blazeIllumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays.
Thus far without impediment I got,My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop,Or ambling steady or on cosy trotSmooth-scudding o’er the airy fields of thought,As a Venetian gondola or shallop.To halt with sudden bump my pencil’s brought.“I can not tell a lie!” (Spring poems are “rot.”)Now all my pretty phrases come to naught.It’s just a shame! But then who would have thought—Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleetBeat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet?And, most unlucky mishap for a poet,The brute has got the studs and will not go it.One solid hour of labor have I lost—I can’t write summer songs in winter’s frost.O April, sure you did not count the costOf your confounded jag! I think you’re drunk!Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk.The Weather Bureau’s all turned inside out—But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out!
Thus far without impediment I got,My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop,Or ambling steady or on cosy trotSmooth-scudding o’er the airy fields of thought,As a Venetian gondola or shallop.To halt with sudden bump my pencil’s brought.“I can not tell a lie!” (Spring poems are “rot.”)Now all my pretty phrases come to naught.It’s just a shame! But then who would have thought—Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleetBeat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet?And, most unlucky mishap for a poet,The brute has got the studs and will not go it.One solid hour of labor have I lost—I can’t write summer songs in winter’s frost.O April, sure you did not count the costOf your confounded jag! I think you’re drunk!Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk.The Weather Bureau’s all turned inside out—But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out!
Thus far without impediment I got,My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop,Or ambling steady or on cosy trotSmooth-scudding o’er the airy fields of thought,As a Venetian gondola or shallop.To halt with sudden bump my pencil’s brought.“I can not tell a lie!” (Spring poems are “rot.”)Now all my pretty phrases come to naught.It’s just a shame! But then who would have thought—Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleetBeat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet?And, most unlucky mishap for a poet,The brute has got the studs and will not go it.One solid hour of labor have I lost—I can’t write summer songs in winter’s frost.O April, sure you did not count the costOf your confounded jag! I think you’re drunk!Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk.The Weather Bureau’s all turned inside out—But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out!
Dedicated to Mrs. Mary Anderson Navarro, London.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:He leans upon his hand—his manly browConsents to death, but conquers agony.—Childe Harold.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:He leans upon his hand—his manly browConsents to death, but conquers agony.—Childe Harold.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:He leans upon his hand—his manly browConsents to death, but conquers agony.—Childe Harold.
The Eternal City, shrine of many lands,Slow fades; before his dying gaze expandsThe Golden-streeted City, not made with hands;Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes,Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies,While sobs below him the great church he trod—“To Cæsar, Cæsar’s; God’s we yield to God.”Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part,Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart;Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears,God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years.Not for the lust of luxury and beauty,Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty,But for the still small voice of dutyBravely did all temptation spurnThe immortal Lion of Lucerne.The Lion is at rest,With his awe-inspiring crest,In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest.Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best,His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross.Who gave mankind the Light DivineTo save the world from loss.His grand life work is o’er,And nations now deploreThe Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross,From Italy’s bay-indented shoreTo where Columbia’s eagles soar,Is heard the voice of weeping,For the Lion softly sleeping,The Lion of the Vatican,Who never feared the face of man—The Lion o’er whose urnThe mounting flames of glory burn;Who died in duty’s harness—the Lion of Lucerne.He sleeps, but not forsaken,For the Judgment trump shall blow,Its blast of joy or woe.The nations of the dead shall riseAnd the Lion of the Vatican shall waken.Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken!With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes,The kingdoms gather round the great white throneTo hear the final sentenceOf all who seek or scorn repentance.Long ere the dreadful conflagrationWhich shall consume each nation,Along each height or hollow shore,Loud shall reverberate the roarWhich made the iron Bismarck bowBefore the Lion’s calm, majestic brow;Which bade the hostile cannon ceaseAnd harmless pave the paths of peace,Who walked where princely Virgil trodAnd then like Enoch walked with God.Be patient, then, O Zion!And wait the wakening of the LionBe patient still, for soonThy God shall grant the boonOf universal peace;And War’s red banner shall be furledThroughout all the world.Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe[C]was worthThe ransom of a hundred kings;Yet diamonds and pearls and allThe riches of this world have wings;The Lion held God’s treasure fast—Honor and truth and Heaven at last.
The Eternal City, shrine of many lands,Slow fades; before his dying gaze expandsThe Golden-streeted City, not made with hands;Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes,Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies,While sobs below him the great church he trod—“To Cæsar, Cæsar’s; God’s we yield to God.”Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part,Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart;Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears,God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years.Not for the lust of luxury and beauty,Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty,But for the still small voice of dutyBravely did all temptation spurnThe immortal Lion of Lucerne.The Lion is at rest,With his awe-inspiring crest,In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest.Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best,His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross.Who gave mankind the Light DivineTo save the world from loss.His grand life work is o’er,And nations now deploreThe Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross,From Italy’s bay-indented shoreTo where Columbia’s eagles soar,Is heard the voice of weeping,For the Lion softly sleeping,The Lion of the Vatican,Who never feared the face of man—The Lion o’er whose urnThe mounting flames of glory burn;Who died in duty’s harness—the Lion of Lucerne.He sleeps, but not forsaken,For the Judgment trump shall blow,Its blast of joy or woe.The nations of the dead shall riseAnd the Lion of the Vatican shall waken.Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken!With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes,The kingdoms gather round the great white throneTo hear the final sentenceOf all who seek or scorn repentance.Long ere the dreadful conflagrationWhich shall consume each nation,Along each height or hollow shore,Loud shall reverberate the roarWhich made the iron Bismarck bowBefore the Lion’s calm, majestic brow;Which bade the hostile cannon ceaseAnd harmless pave the paths of peace,Who walked where princely Virgil trodAnd then like Enoch walked with God.Be patient, then, O Zion!And wait the wakening of the LionBe patient still, for soonThy God shall grant the boonOf universal peace;And War’s red banner shall be furledThroughout all the world.Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe[C]was worthThe ransom of a hundred kings;Yet diamonds and pearls and allThe riches of this world have wings;The Lion held God’s treasure fast—Honor and truth and Heaven at last.
The Eternal City, shrine of many lands,Slow fades; before his dying gaze expandsThe Golden-streeted City, not made with hands;Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes,Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies,While sobs below him the great church he trod—“To Cæsar, Cæsar’s; God’s we yield to God.”Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part,Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart;Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears,God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years.
Not for the lust of luxury and beauty,Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty,But for the still small voice of dutyBravely did all temptation spurnThe immortal Lion of Lucerne.
The Lion is at rest,With his awe-inspiring crest,In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest.Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best,His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross.Who gave mankind the Light DivineTo save the world from loss.
His grand life work is o’er,And nations now deploreThe Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross,From Italy’s bay-indented shoreTo where Columbia’s eagles soar,Is heard the voice of weeping,For the Lion softly sleeping,The Lion of the Vatican,Who never feared the face of man—The Lion o’er whose urnThe mounting flames of glory burn;Who died in duty’s harness—the Lion of Lucerne.
He sleeps, but not forsaken,For the Judgment trump shall blow,Its blast of joy or woe.The nations of the dead shall riseAnd the Lion of the Vatican shall waken.Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken!With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes,The kingdoms gather round the great white throneTo hear the final sentenceOf all who seek or scorn repentance.
Long ere the dreadful conflagrationWhich shall consume each nation,Along each height or hollow shore,Loud shall reverberate the roarWhich made the iron Bismarck bowBefore the Lion’s calm, majestic brow;Which bade the hostile cannon ceaseAnd harmless pave the paths of peace,Who walked where princely Virgil trodAnd then like Enoch walked with God.
Be patient, then, O Zion!And wait the wakening of the LionBe patient still, for soonThy God shall grant the boonOf universal peace;And War’s red banner shall be furledThroughout all the world.
Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe[C]was worthThe ransom of a hundred kings;Yet diamonds and pearls and allThe riches of this world have wings;The Lion held God’s treasure fast—Honor and truth and Heaven at last.
Chiabrera, an Italian poet, is said to have written the following inscription for his tomb:
“Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus;Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.”
“Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus;Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.”
“Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus;Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.”
The setting sun shone down the Apennines,Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines,And his dark collonades of whispering pines.The tinkling bells of the returning flocksRang through the lengthening shadows of the rocksAnd grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks.The Star of Evening trembled in the West,Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast,And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest.Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay,Life’s waning lights across his features playLike the last beams of yon declining day.And as departing day its glory shedBright on the group which gathered round his bed,In faltering words the dying poet said:“Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death,Upon my brow I feel their icy breath—And the bright star of song forsakes my path.“No more Apollo’s mount shall I behold—The rainbow mist that round its summit rolledFades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold.“The groves are withered on Parnassus’ side;The fields are dead—the streams no longer glide,And every fount by fiery heat is dried.“All dumb and shattered lies Apollo’s shell,Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well,Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell.“Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rockOh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flockShield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;“There from the pelting storm and bitter blast,My weary soul its refuge finds at last.Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past.“Parnassus! up whose steeps I long have striven,Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven,Stops in the clouds—but Calvary’s rests in Heaven.”
The setting sun shone down the Apennines,Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines,And his dark collonades of whispering pines.The tinkling bells of the returning flocksRang through the lengthening shadows of the rocksAnd grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks.The Star of Evening trembled in the West,Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast,And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest.Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay,Life’s waning lights across his features playLike the last beams of yon declining day.And as departing day its glory shedBright on the group which gathered round his bed,In faltering words the dying poet said:“Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death,Upon my brow I feel their icy breath—And the bright star of song forsakes my path.“No more Apollo’s mount shall I behold—The rainbow mist that round its summit rolledFades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold.“The groves are withered on Parnassus’ side;The fields are dead—the streams no longer glide,And every fount by fiery heat is dried.“All dumb and shattered lies Apollo’s shell,Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well,Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell.“Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rockOh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flockShield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;“There from the pelting storm and bitter blast,My weary soul its refuge finds at last.Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past.“Parnassus! up whose steeps I long have striven,Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven,Stops in the clouds—but Calvary’s rests in Heaven.”
The setting sun shone down the Apennines,Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines,And his dark collonades of whispering pines.
The tinkling bells of the returning flocksRang through the lengthening shadows of the rocksAnd grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks.
The Star of Evening trembled in the West,Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast,And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest.
Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay,Life’s waning lights across his features playLike the last beams of yon declining day.
And as departing day its glory shedBright on the group which gathered round his bed,In faltering words the dying poet said:
“Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death,Upon my brow I feel their icy breath—And the bright star of song forsakes my path.
“No more Apollo’s mount shall I behold—The rainbow mist that round its summit rolledFades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold.
“The groves are withered on Parnassus’ side;The fields are dead—the streams no longer glide,And every fount by fiery heat is dried.
“All dumb and shattered lies Apollo’s shell,Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well,Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell.
“Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rockOh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flockShield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;
“There from the pelting storm and bitter blast,My weary soul its refuge finds at last.Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past.
“Parnassus! up whose steeps I long have striven,Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven,Stops in the clouds—but Calvary’s rests in Heaven.”
On the death of Captain Bacon, Kentucky Volunteers, U. S. A., slain at Sacraments, Ky., December, 1861.
Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky’s dead,Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head,Whose true blood streaming from his manly breastShall dye with glories new thy marble crest,And caught by every sun upon the airAppeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer—Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land,From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand;Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice spedTo fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead;Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part,Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart,And summon martial millions to the fieldA patriot host, the nation’s living shield.Promethean sun! whose early splendors kissThese pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis,Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just,Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust,Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay,—Oft as thy torch illumes the morning grayTouch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fireAnd it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre,With an inspiring voice whose kindling strainShall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain,And shed his base assassin’s blood as freeAs yonder waves which hasten to the sea.Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear,Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier.We knew thatwithoronthy stainless shieldWe would receive thee from the battle-field!True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s callThou wert the first to arm thee—and to fall.The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groanThrill the pained air with melancholy moan,While the slow river winding far belowWhispers through all its waves the song of woe,And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hillsWith mournful cadence all the valley fills.
Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky’s dead,Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head,Whose true blood streaming from his manly breastShall dye with glories new thy marble crest,And caught by every sun upon the airAppeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer—Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land,From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand;Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice spedTo fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead;Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part,Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart,And summon martial millions to the fieldA patriot host, the nation’s living shield.Promethean sun! whose early splendors kissThese pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis,Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just,Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust,Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay,—Oft as thy torch illumes the morning grayTouch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fireAnd it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre,With an inspiring voice whose kindling strainShall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain,And shed his base assassin’s blood as freeAs yonder waves which hasten to the sea.Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear,Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier.We knew thatwithoronthy stainless shieldWe would receive thee from the battle-field!True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s callThou wert the first to arm thee—and to fall.The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groanThrill the pained air with melancholy moan,While the slow river winding far belowWhispers through all its waves the song of woe,And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hillsWith mournful cadence all the valley fills.
Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky’s dead,Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head,Whose true blood streaming from his manly breastShall dye with glories new thy marble crest,And caught by every sun upon the airAppeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer—Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land,From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand;Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice spedTo fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead;Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part,Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart,And summon martial millions to the fieldA patriot host, the nation’s living shield.
Promethean sun! whose early splendors kissThese pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis,Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just,Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust,Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay,—Oft as thy torch illumes the morning grayTouch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fireAnd it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre,With an inspiring voice whose kindling strainShall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain,And shed his base assassin’s blood as freeAs yonder waves which hasten to the sea.
Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear,Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier.We knew thatwithoronthy stainless shieldWe would receive thee from the battle-field!True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s callThou wert the first to arm thee—and to fall.The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groanThrill the pained air with melancholy moan,While the slow river winding far belowWhispers through all its waves the song of woe,And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hillsWith mournful cadence all the valley fills.
After Judge Bruce’s AddressAt Hopkinsville.
Take courage, ye people of order and law,Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe;Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes,Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes,Take courage! Remember that God reigns on highWho foredooms your tyrants ’neath His vengeance to die.When bad men conspire, let all good men unite;All crime must be conquered by organized Right.Though Satan conspire to persecute Job,And muster all demons which travel the globe,Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surroundAnd the wife of his bosom be treacherous found;Though Judas and High Priest ’gainst Jesus plot,Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought;Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swearThat Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air;Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown,Noah’s Ark shall land safely on Ararat’s crown.So virtue shall triumph, ’tis Heaven’s decree,And God’s law shall rule o’er the land and the seaJob sees all his losses by Heaven restored,Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord—And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword.And ye citizens banded for order and lawNo more let the Night Riders fill you with awe,Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend,And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend,Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools,HisalibiG——s and his Paddy McCools.Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubtThat your vengeance is sure and that murder will out—That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wivesShall pay the full penalty down with their lives.Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrongWas the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long;There are crimes so inhuman, ’twere a crime to forgive;Who scourges a woman ’twere a crime to let live.Your lash unresisted mangled woman’s tender back,And till death her avenger shall press on your track.Then rally, O citizens, from border to border,One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order.Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider’s foot;What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute?Remember all history repeats the same tale,That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail.Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success,Cheered on like old Scotland by “Bruce’s Address.”Yes; though Lucifer, “Star of the Morning,” rebel,His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell.“Black Hands,” Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather,Must go to the prison or scaffold together.
Take courage, ye people of order and law,Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe;Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes,Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes,Take courage! Remember that God reigns on highWho foredooms your tyrants ’neath His vengeance to die.When bad men conspire, let all good men unite;All crime must be conquered by organized Right.Though Satan conspire to persecute Job,And muster all demons which travel the globe,Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surroundAnd the wife of his bosom be treacherous found;Though Judas and High Priest ’gainst Jesus plot,Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought;Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swearThat Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air;Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown,Noah’s Ark shall land safely on Ararat’s crown.So virtue shall triumph, ’tis Heaven’s decree,And God’s law shall rule o’er the land and the seaJob sees all his losses by Heaven restored,Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord—And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword.And ye citizens banded for order and lawNo more let the Night Riders fill you with awe,Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend,And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend,Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools,HisalibiG——s and his Paddy McCools.Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubtThat your vengeance is sure and that murder will out—That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wivesShall pay the full penalty down with their lives.Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrongWas the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long;There are crimes so inhuman, ’twere a crime to forgive;Who scourges a woman ’twere a crime to let live.Your lash unresisted mangled woman’s tender back,And till death her avenger shall press on your track.Then rally, O citizens, from border to border,One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order.Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider’s foot;What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute?Remember all history repeats the same tale,That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail.Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success,Cheered on like old Scotland by “Bruce’s Address.”Yes; though Lucifer, “Star of the Morning,” rebel,His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell.“Black Hands,” Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather,Must go to the prison or scaffold together.
Take courage, ye people of order and law,Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe;Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes,Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes,Take courage! Remember that God reigns on highWho foredooms your tyrants ’neath His vengeance to die.
When bad men conspire, let all good men unite;All crime must be conquered by organized Right.Though Satan conspire to persecute Job,And muster all demons which travel the globe,Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surroundAnd the wife of his bosom be treacherous found;Though Judas and High Priest ’gainst Jesus plot,Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought;Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swearThat Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air;Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown,Noah’s Ark shall land safely on Ararat’s crown.So virtue shall triumph, ’tis Heaven’s decree,And God’s law shall rule o’er the land and the seaJob sees all his losses by Heaven restored,Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord—And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword.And ye citizens banded for order and lawNo more let the Night Riders fill you with awe,Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend,And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend,Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools,HisalibiG——s and his Paddy McCools.Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubtThat your vengeance is sure and that murder will out—That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wivesShall pay the full penalty down with their lives.Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrongWas the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long;There are crimes so inhuman, ’twere a crime to forgive;Who scourges a woman ’twere a crime to let live.Your lash unresisted mangled woman’s tender back,And till death her avenger shall press on your track.
Then rally, O citizens, from border to border,One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order.Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider’s foot;What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute?Remember all history repeats the same tale,That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail.Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success,Cheered on like old Scotland by “Bruce’s Address.”Yes; though Lucifer, “Star of the Morning,” rebel,His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell.“Black Hands,” Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather,Must go to the prison or scaffold together.
Dedicated to Col. R. M. Kelly, Superintendent of the National Cemetery, Louisville.
[The loss of a shield was regarded as peculiarly disgraceful by the Greek soldiers. The dead were borne home upon their shields. “Return with thy shield, my son, or upon it,” was the heroic injunction of a Spartan mother.]
Sound, trumpet sound! The die is cast!The Rubicon of fate is passed!The loyal and the rebel hosts,Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts,And on the issue of the strifeHang peace and liberty and life;All that the storied past endears,And all the hopes of coming years;The startled world looks on the field.Thou canst not fly—thou dar’st not yield—Then strike! and make thy foeman feelThy triply consecrated steel,And with or on thy shining shieldReturn, Kentucky, from the field.Strike! though the battle’s dead be strownO’er land and wave from zone to zone;Strike! though the gulf of human bloodRoll o’er thee like the primal flood.Treason at home—beyond the sea—Its ally, ancient tyranny,Democracy’s relentless foe,Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow;Freedom’s last hope remains with thee,Oh, army of democracy;Then lead thy martial hosts abroadIn the grand panoply of God,And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.Wave, banners, wave, and let the skyGlow with your flashing wings on high;There’s music in each rustling foldSweeter than minstrel ever told;Oh, who that ever heard the storyOf all our dead who fell in glory,Still pressing where the starry lightStreamed like a meteor o’er the fight,Till their expiring bosoms pouredThe red libation of the sword,Would leave Kentucky now, or thrustHer beaming forehead in the dust,Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hissLike fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss?Better the freeman’s lowliest graveThan golden fetters of a slave;Then with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.If bribed by lust of power or goldThy country’s welfare thou hast sold,Iscariot-like thy name shall beIn Freedom’s dark Gethsemane;Disgrace and fell remorse shall plowEternal furrows o’er thy brow;By angels, men, and fiends abhorred,Like Judas who betrayed his Lord.Outcast at home—across the seaShunned like a leper thou shalt be,No spring shall slake thy burning thirst,The fire shall shun thee as accursedDay shall be cheerless—no reposeAt night thy swollen eye shall close—Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye,Curse God in black despair, and die!Kentucky, hast thou son so base,Thy fame unsullied would disgrace?Attaint his blood, disown his race,His line, his very name efface.Then charge! thy grand battalions freeFrom all attaint of treachery—Charge on thy foes! make all the airVocal with freedom’s holiest prayer,And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field!State of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,”The trumpet peals its final soundDown every mountain height arrayedComes thundering on the long brigade;By every valley, pass, and river,Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver;Shame to the faithless son who faltersWhen impious hands assail their altars,And fill each fount of happinessWith waves of woe and bitterness;The dead their august shades presentBy Frankfort’s Battle Monument;Not now their souls can be at rest,Though in the Islands of the Blest—“Remember us,” their voices cry,“When comes the hour of conflict nigh,”And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Sound, trumpet sound! The die is cast!The Rubicon of fate is passed!The loyal and the rebel hosts,Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts,And on the issue of the strifeHang peace and liberty and life;All that the storied past endears,And all the hopes of coming years;The startled world looks on the field.Thou canst not fly—thou dar’st not yield—Then strike! and make thy foeman feelThy triply consecrated steel,And with or on thy shining shieldReturn, Kentucky, from the field.Strike! though the battle’s dead be strownO’er land and wave from zone to zone;Strike! though the gulf of human bloodRoll o’er thee like the primal flood.Treason at home—beyond the sea—Its ally, ancient tyranny,Democracy’s relentless foe,Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow;Freedom’s last hope remains with thee,Oh, army of democracy;Then lead thy martial hosts abroadIn the grand panoply of God,And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.Wave, banners, wave, and let the skyGlow with your flashing wings on high;There’s music in each rustling foldSweeter than minstrel ever told;Oh, who that ever heard the storyOf all our dead who fell in glory,Still pressing where the starry lightStreamed like a meteor o’er the fight,Till their expiring bosoms pouredThe red libation of the sword,Would leave Kentucky now, or thrustHer beaming forehead in the dust,Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hissLike fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss?Better the freeman’s lowliest graveThan golden fetters of a slave;Then with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.If bribed by lust of power or goldThy country’s welfare thou hast sold,Iscariot-like thy name shall beIn Freedom’s dark Gethsemane;Disgrace and fell remorse shall plowEternal furrows o’er thy brow;By angels, men, and fiends abhorred,Like Judas who betrayed his Lord.Outcast at home—across the seaShunned like a leper thou shalt be,No spring shall slake thy burning thirst,The fire shall shun thee as accursedDay shall be cheerless—no reposeAt night thy swollen eye shall close—Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye,Curse God in black despair, and die!Kentucky, hast thou son so base,Thy fame unsullied would disgrace?Attaint his blood, disown his race,His line, his very name efface.Then charge! thy grand battalions freeFrom all attaint of treachery—Charge on thy foes! make all the airVocal with freedom’s holiest prayer,And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field!State of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,”The trumpet peals its final soundDown every mountain height arrayedComes thundering on the long brigade;By every valley, pass, and river,Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver;Shame to the faithless son who faltersWhen impious hands assail their altars,And fill each fount of happinessWith waves of woe and bitterness;The dead their august shades presentBy Frankfort’s Battle Monument;Not now their souls can be at rest,Though in the Islands of the Blest—“Remember us,” their voices cry,“When comes the hour of conflict nigh,”And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Sound, trumpet sound! The die is cast!The Rubicon of fate is passed!The loyal and the rebel hosts,Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts,And on the issue of the strifeHang peace and liberty and life;All that the storied past endears,And all the hopes of coming years;The startled world looks on the field.Thou canst not fly—thou dar’st not yield—Then strike! and make thy foeman feelThy triply consecrated steel,And with or on thy shining shieldReturn, Kentucky, from the field.
Strike! though the battle’s dead be strownO’er land and wave from zone to zone;Strike! though the gulf of human bloodRoll o’er thee like the primal flood.Treason at home—beyond the sea—Its ally, ancient tyranny,Democracy’s relentless foe,Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow;Freedom’s last hope remains with thee,Oh, army of democracy;Then lead thy martial hosts abroadIn the grand panoply of God,And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Wave, banners, wave, and let the skyGlow with your flashing wings on high;There’s music in each rustling foldSweeter than minstrel ever told;Oh, who that ever heard the storyOf all our dead who fell in glory,Still pressing where the starry lightStreamed like a meteor o’er the fight,Till their expiring bosoms pouredThe red libation of the sword,Would leave Kentucky now, or thrustHer beaming forehead in the dust,Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hissLike fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss?Better the freeman’s lowliest graveThan golden fetters of a slave;Then with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.
If bribed by lust of power or goldThy country’s welfare thou hast sold,Iscariot-like thy name shall beIn Freedom’s dark Gethsemane;Disgrace and fell remorse shall plowEternal furrows o’er thy brow;By angels, men, and fiends abhorred,Like Judas who betrayed his Lord.Outcast at home—across the seaShunned like a leper thou shalt be,No spring shall slake thy burning thirst,The fire shall shun thee as accursedDay shall be cheerless—no reposeAt night thy swollen eye shall close—Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye,Curse God in black despair, and die!Kentucky, hast thou son so base,Thy fame unsullied would disgrace?Attaint his blood, disown his race,His line, his very name efface.Then charge! thy grand battalions freeFrom all attaint of treachery—Charge on thy foes! make all the airVocal with freedom’s holiest prayer,And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field!
State of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,”The trumpet peals its final soundDown every mountain height arrayedComes thundering on the long brigade;By every valley, pass, and river,Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver;Shame to the faithless son who faltersWhen impious hands assail their altars,And fill each fount of happinessWith waves of woe and bitterness;The dead their august shades presentBy Frankfort’s Battle Monument;Not now their souls can be at rest,Though in the Islands of the Blest—“Remember us,” their voices cry,“When comes the hour of conflict nigh,”And with or on thy shining shield,Return, Kentucky, from the field.
[To Agnes, Louisville.]
I send this morning, Agnes dear,A white and fragrant flower,Emblem of maiden Hope and Love,In Confirmation’s hour.O, may the blessings which descendThis moment on thy headOn thy pure virgin heart and soulLike precious fragrance shed.I in life’s evening gloaming walk,Thou in the morning bright,Night’s blossoms I unfolding see,Thou the Auroral light—Yet all my heart in sympathyAttends thy morning dreams,For well I know the bitternessOf life’s delusive streams.A morning calm, a storm at eve,At morn we joy, ere night we grieve:So when the falling April showers,Bringing the joy of birds and flowers,’Neath the quick brush of golden sunCatch rainbow colors one by one,The liquid gems quick fade awayIn dismal vapors cold and gray.Lo, Juliet’s girlish bridal bedWith funeral flowers is quickly spreadEre the brief marriage vows are said.Sleeping in Capulet’s vault belowHer wedding night with Romeo.Not “True Love’s Course” alone, but Man’s,Never ran smooth since Time began,Even ’mid the thunder shouts of friendsMcKinley’s breast the bullet rends.Wisdom, Wealth, Pleasure, Glory, Power,Made Judah’s king rejoice:Song, dance, and wine flowed free,—“Now comesGod’s judgment!” spoke a voice,For earth is vain and life is frailSince first the world began;To fear and serve the living GodIs the whole lot of man.Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the FountOf Christ’s Eternal Truth,Till He shall bear thee o’er Death’s streamTo everlasting Youth.
I send this morning, Agnes dear,A white and fragrant flower,Emblem of maiden Hope and Love,In Confirmation’s hour.O, may the blessings which descendThis moment on thy headOn thy pure virgin heart and soulLike precious fragrance shed.I in life’s evening gloaming walk,Thou in the morning bright,Night’s blossoms I unfolding see,Thou the Auroral light—Yet all my heart in sympathyAttends thy morning dreams,For well I know the bitternessOf life’s delusive streams.A morning calm, a storm at eve,At morn we joy, ere night we grieve:So when the falling April showers,Bringing the joy of birds and flowers,’Neath the quick brush of golden sunCatch rainbow colors one by one,The liquid gems quick fade awayIn dismal vapors cold and gray.Lo, Juliet’s girlish bridal bedWith funeral flowers is quickly spreadEre the brief marriage vows are said.Sleeping in Capulet’s vault belowHer wedding night with Romeo.Not “True Love’s Course” alone, but Man’s,Never ran smooth since Time began,Even ’mid the thunder shouts of friendsMcKinley’s breast the bullet rends.Wisdom, Wealth, Pleasure, Glory, Power,Made Judah’s king rejoice:Song, dance, and wine flowed free,—“Now comesGod’s judgment!” spoke a voice,For earth is vain and life is frailSince first the world began;To fear and serve the living GodIs the whole lot of man.Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the FountOf Christ’s Eternal Truth,Till He shall bear thee o’er Death’s streamTo everlasting Youth.
I send this morning, Agnes dear,A white and fragrant flower,Emblem of maiden Hope and Love,In Confirmation’s hour.O, may the blessings which descendThis moment on thy headOn thy pure virgin heart and soulLike precious fragrance shed.
I in life’s evening gloaming walk,Thou in the morning bright,Night’s blossoms I unfolding see,Thou the Auroral light—Yet all my heart in sympathyAttends thy morning dreams,For well I know the bitternessOf life’s delusive streams.
A morning calm, a storm at eve,At morn we joy, ere night we grieve:So when the falling April showers,Bringing the joy of birds and flowers,’Neath the quick brush of golden sunCatch rainbow colors one by one,The liquid gems quick fade awayIn dismal vapors cold and gray.
Lo, Juliet’s girlish bridal bedWith funeral flowers is quickly spreadEre the brief marriage vows are said.Sleeping in Capulet’s vault belowHer wedding night with Romeo.Not “True Love’s Course” alone, but Man’s,Never ran smooth since Time began,Even ’mid the thunder shouts of friendsMcKinley’s breast the bullet rends.
Wisdom, Wealth, Pleasure, Glory, Power,Made Judah’s king rejoice:Song, dance, and wine flowed free,—“Now comesGod’s judgment!” spoke a voice,For earth is vain and life is frailSince first the world began;To fear and serve the living GodIs the whole lot of man.Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the FountOf Christ’s Eternal Truth,Till He shall bear thee o’er Death’s streamTo everlasting Youth.
On a Floral Card.
Far sweeter than the roseWhich all the year round blowsOn Cashmere’s fragrant bosom,Is the fair flower which growsAmid December snows;—’Tis friendship’s Christmas blossom.Its loving arms expanding,The Christmas cross is standing,The guide-post of the ages,To point to realms of gloryAnd charm with simple storyThe children and the sages.Red rose and pallid lily,Pansy and daffodilly,Chrysanthemum and myrtle,Around the cross are clingingWith wooing and sweet singingOf nightingale and turtle.The frozen Arctic splinterShot from the bow of winterWill lose its power to harm us,While dreams of childhood’s Christmas,’Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus,In nightly visions charm us.The angry gale may shatterSweet Cashmere’s rose and scatterIts leaves o’er vale and river;The Christmas flower shall thriveAs long as Love shall live,Forever and forever!
Far sweeter than the roseWhich all the year round blowsOn Cashmere’s fragrant bosom,Is the fair flower which growsAmid December snows;—’Tis friendship’s Christmas blossom.Its loving arms expanding,The Christmas cross is standing,The guide-post of the ages,To point to realms of gloryAnd charm with simple storyThe children and the sages.Red rose and pallid lily,Pansy and daffodilly,Chrysanthemum and myrtle,Around the cross are clingingWith wooing and sweet singingOf nightingale and turtle.The frozen Arctic splinterShot from the bow of winterWill lose its power to harm us,While dreams of childhood’s Christmas,’Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus,In nightly visions charm us.The angry gale may shatterSweet Cashmere’s rose and scatterIts leaves o’er vale and river;The Christmas flower shall thriveAs long as Love shall live,Forever and forever!
Far sweeter than the roseWhich all the year round blowsOn Cashmere’s fragrant bosom,Is the fair flower which growsAmid December snows;—’Tis friendship’s Christmas blossom.
Its loving arms expanding,The Christmas cross is standing,The guide-post of the ages,To point to realms of gloryAnd charm with simple storyThe children and the sages.
Red rose and pallid lily,Pansy and daffodilly,Chrysanthemum and myrtle,Around the cross are clingingWith wooing and sweet singingOf nightingale and turtle.
The frozen Arctic splinterShot from the bow of winterWill lose its power to harm us,While dreams of childhood’s Christmas,’Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus,In nightly visions charm us.
The angry gale may shatterSweet Cashmere’s rose and scatterIts leaves o’er vale and river;The Christmas flower shall thriveAs long as Love shall live,Forever and forever!
Nashville, Tenn., 1862.
Ye soldiers of the UnionWith holiest valor fired,To shield the land whose sacred causeYour father’s souls inspired—Strike at yon black rebellion,Like a thunderbolt of dread,For the safety of the livingAnd the memory of the dead!Bright Banner of the Union!By beauty’s fingers wrought,Around the world thy lessonOf glory has been taught.It tells of deathless battle-fields,To fame and freedom dear,And speaks of peace and happinessTo man’s enraptured ear.Bright altar of the Union!Around thy spotless shrine,We swear disunion ne’er shall touchThy offering divine!For our dead would sleep dishonoredAnd the living have no hope,If in rebellion’s starless nightOur land were doomed to grope.Charge, soldiers of the Union,In truth’s eternal might,Ye strike not for the lust of power,But liberty and right.The present and the Future plead—The past full well ye know—Strike home as your forefathers struckAnd Heaven will guide the blow!
Ye soldiers of the UnionWith holiest valor fired,To shield the land whose sacred causeYour father’s souls inspired—Strike at yon black rebellion,Like a thunderbolt of dread,For the safety of the livingAnd the memory of the dead!Bright Banner of the Union!By beauty’s fingers wrought,Around the world thy lessonOf glory has been taught.It tells of deathless battle-fields,To fame and freedom dear,And speaks of peace and happinessTo man’s enraptured ear.Bright altar of the Union!Around thy spotless shrine,We swear disunion ne’er shall touchThy offering divine!For our dead would sleep dishonoredAnd the living have no hope,If in rebellion’s starless nightOur land were doomed to grope.Charge, soldiers of the Union,In truth’s eternal might,Ye strike not for the lust of power,But liberty and right.The present and the Future plead—The past full well ye know—Strike home as your forefathers struckAnd Heaven will guide the blow!
Ye soldiers of the UnionWith holiest valor fired,To shield the land whose sacred causeYour father’s souls inspired—Strike at yon black rebellion,Like a thunderbolt of dread,For the safety of the livingAnd the memory of the dead!
Bright Banner of the Union!By beauty’s fingers wrought,Around the world thy lessonOf glory has been taught.It tells of deathless battle-fields,To fame and freedom dear,And speaks of peace and happinessTo man’s enraptured ear.
Bright altar of the Union!Around thy spotless shrine,We swear disunion ne’er shall touchThy offering divine!For our dead would sleep dishonoredAnd the living have no hope,If in rebellion’s starless nightOur land were doomed to grope.
Charge, soldiers of the Union,In truth’s eternal might,Ye strike not for the lust of power,But liberty and right.The present and the Future plead—The past full well ye know—Strike home as your forefathers struckAnd Heaven will guide the blow!
Dedicated to Mrs. Anna M. D. Gordon, Medical Missionary at Mungeli, India.
“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task has done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”—General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in Cymbeline.
“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task has done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”—General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in Cymbeline.
“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task has done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”—General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in Cymbeline.
General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885.Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908.
General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885.Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908.
General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885.Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908.
In the mystic land of Egypt,In the streets of old Khartoum,O’er the grave of martyred GordonDoes the rose of England bloom;By Mahdi, the false prophet,Borne down in hopeless strife,The Christian hero GordonLaid down his priceless life.Thou Circean Cleopatra,Of legendary Nile,Luring to death the Roman PrinceBy thy pernicious smileA wine-inflamed and sensuous girl,Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl,Thou once dissolved and drank a pearlInflamed by bacchanal applause,Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause.Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found—The pearl of boundless price—The healing drink had cleansed thy soulLike Magdalen’s sacrifice.Egypt redeemed had hailed the mornTo a new life forever born,
In the mystic land of Egypt,In the streets of old Khartoum,O’er the grave of martyred GordonDoes the rose of England bloom;By Mahdi, the false prophet,Borne down in hopeless strife,The Christian hero GordonLaid down his priceless life.Thou Circean Cleopatra,Of legendary Nile,Luring to death the Roman PrinceBy thy pernicious smileA wine-inflamed and sensuous girl,Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl,Thou once dissolved and drank a pearlInflamed by bacchanal applause,Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause.Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found—The pearl of boundless price—The healing drink had cleansed thy soulLike Magdalen’s sacrifice.Egypt redeemed had hailed the mornTo a new life forever born,
In the mystic land of Egypt,In the streets of old Khartoum,O’er the grave of martyred GordonDoes the rose of England bloom;By Mahdi, the false prophet,Borne down in hopeless strife,The Christian hero GordonLaid down his priceless life.
Thou Circean Cleopatra,Of legendary Nile,Luring to death the Roman PrinceBy thy pernicious smileA wine-inflamed and sensuous girl,Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl,Thou once dissolved and drank a pearlInflamed by bacchanal applause,Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause.Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found—The pearl of boundless price—The healing drink had cleansed thy soulLike Magdalen’s sacrifice.Egypt redeemed had hailed the mornTo a new life forever born,
Image unavailable: Rev. E. M. GORDON His wife, Anna M. D. Gordon, Missionaries at Mungeli, India, and daughterRev. E. M. GORDONHis wife, Anna M. D. Gordon, Missionaries at Mungeli, India, and daughter
And in thy glittering diademHad shone the Cross—the hallowed gemWorn by the Babe of Bethlehem,Nor Africa had sent her fettered slavesTo fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.From the mystic land of India,In the flower of stalwart manhood,Another Gordon came—Counsellor, preacher, teacher—The foster son of Hopkinsville,Fearless and without blame;No gem in India’s richest minesShot forth a purer flame.India’s best civic honorsHe calmly put aside—“I serve the Man of Galilee,Who upon Calvary died.Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prizeFrom Him shall me divide,For I am bidden a chosen guestTo the Lamb’s holy marriage feastTo stand by Heaven’s own bride,And I wear the rose of Sharon,As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”—O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son,Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend,Is thy eternal pride!A yawning gulf once sunderedRome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will;Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest giftOnly the gulf can fill!”Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed,In panoply and plume,Down the dark gulf—it closes up,And thou hast met thy doom;High in Olympic halls great JoveFor the martyred youth makes room.Immortal sacrifice! thy fameShall fly o’er every sea;The loud seas shout to every land:“Great souls are more precious than golden sand,Or all the pearls on the ocean strand,And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand;Death swallowed Curtius, but death itselfIs swallowed in victory.”And Curtius and the Gordons twain,And all who in duty’s strife are slain,Shall live immortally,And the harps of love shall sound their praiseIn the choir aboveIn sweetest melody.Immortal is the sacred prizeOf him who for his fellow dies.Leap—not to death—a leap for lifeWas thine—far, far above the strifeAnd stress of Earth’s uncertain life—Ungrateful oft to truest worth,Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shieldOf bloody war, but to the psalmsOf poets’ harps thou wavest the palmsWhich demi-gods in glory bear,Walking the green Elysian fieldsForever free from toil or care,Chanting a soul-inspiring song,While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng.Listen, O missionary brothers,The mighty Christian brotherhoodWho toil in surplice, gown, or hood,The rulers of each English-speaking nationProclaim the watchword of Salvation;Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers;The doves that perchWithin the belfry of the ChurchTurn carrier-doves; their rustling wingsFan every breeze with song; soft singsVictoria’s low and gentle voice,In tones which make mankind rejoice;Of India’s Empress, England’s Queen,Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene,Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation.Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation:England’s star-bannered colony,Home of the upright, brave and free,The States so wisely ruled by Washington—Like England lit by never-setting sun—Send from Columbia’s far-winding shoreThe peaceful words to Hague of Theodore;The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedgeShall guard our borders, surest pledgeOf universal lasting peace,And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease.From Khartoum’s streets red with his bloodWent Gordon’s soul to greet his God;Long had he served his Master well—What mattered where or how he fell?Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way—Go easily to Eden’s day,Death’s trackless passage through the airGoes straight to Heaven from everywhere.Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum,Glorious alike the good man’s doom.Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room,And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom,Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost—Shall not one precious soul be lost.* * * * * * * *Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest;Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest.Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed;The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast,So summer twilights slumber in the West.* * * * * * * *A kindly voice and tapping at the doorSalute him in the early morning;Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning—“Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.”Too brief, alas, for us! but on that shoreWhere time is counted by the clock no moreThou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er—O the dread silence and its bitter grief!Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more!For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore.He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes,Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies,High in his Master’s Court in Paradise.Love’s magic lyre is mute,But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice,Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute,Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice.The accents of his tuneful tongueSounded like harp by angel strungTo melodies of Eden sung,On which his ravished audience hung:Chautauqua’s white and fluttering saluteShall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute.Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er;The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar,Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap,In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep,Confront the intrepid soul no moreNor vainly menace him with scathAs he pursued the Galilean pathTo help the friendless sick or starving poor,For India’s wretched succor to secure;Blessed Virgin, see another son!Like Him of Calvary his course has run;Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife,The applause of eager listening crowds,Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds,Are naught to him God calls from earthly strifeTo rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life.Two nations in one common griefLament the Gordons twain;Both perished in the flower of life,Swift-stricken, but not in vain;One in the storm of battle,One in his quiet room—Clasp hands o’er your untimely slain,Hopkinsville and old Khartoum.Ye both have found eternal fame,Through magic power of a noble name.Now face to face, and hand in hand,They talk in blest repose,’Neath skies which know no deadly heat,Nor winter’s bitter snows;In the opulence of Eden,Where Life’s shining river flows,On the verdant banks of the River of Life,Where the tree of Calvary grows,Where Christ Himself is Gardener,Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner,And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bowerIs Duty’s thornless rose.June 3, 1908.
And in thy glittering diademHad shone the Cross—the hallowed gemWorn by the Babe of Bethlehem,Nor Africa had sent her fettered slavesTo fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.From the mystic land of India,In the flower of stalwart manhood,Another Gordon came—Counsellor, preacher, teacher—The foster son of Hopkinsville,Fearless and without blame;No gem in India’s richest minesShot forth a purer flame.India’s best civic honorsHe calmly put aside—“I serve the Man of Galilee,Who upon Calvary died.Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prizeFrom Him shall me divide,For I am bidden a chosen guestTo the Lamb’s holy marriage feastTo stand by Heaven’s own bride,And I wear the rose of Sharon,As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”—O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son,Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend,Is thy eternal pride!A yawning gulf once sunderedRome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will;Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest giftOnly the gulf can fill!”Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed,In panoply and plume,Down the dark gulf—it closes up,And thou hast met thy doom;High in Olympic halls great JoveFor the martyred youth makes room.Immortal sacrifice! thy fameShall fly o’er every sea;The loud seas shout to every land:“Great souls are more precious than golden sand,Or all the pearls on the ocean strand,And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand;Death swallowed Curtius, but death itselfIs swallowed in victory.”And Curtius and the Gordons twain,And all who in duty’s strife are slain,Shall live immortally,And the harps of love shall sound their praiseIn the choir aboveIn sweetest melody.Immortal is the sacred prizeOf him who for his fellow dies.Leap—not to death—a leap for lifeWas thine—far, far above the strifeAnd stress of Earth’s uncertain life—Ungrateful oft to truest worth,Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shieldOf bloody war, but to the psalmsOf poets’ harps thou wavest the palmsWhich demi-gods in glory bear,Walking the green Elysian fieldsForever free from toil or care,Chanting a soul-inspiring song,While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng.Listen, O missionary brothers,The mighty Christian brotherhoodWho toil in surplice, gown, or hood,The rulers of each English-speaking nationProclaim the watchword of Salvation;Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers;The doves that perchWithin the belfry of the ChurchTurn carrier-doves; their rustling wingsFan every breeze with song; soft singsVictoria’s low and gentle voice,In tones which make mankind rejoice;Of India’s Empress, England’s Queen,Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene,Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation.Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation:England’s star-bannered colony,Home of the upright, brave and free,The States so wisely ruled by Washington—Like England lit by never-setting sun—Send from Columbia’s far-winding shoreThe peaceful words to Hague of Theodore;The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedgeShall guard our borders, surest pledgeOf universal lasting peace,And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease.From Khartoum’s streets red with his bloodWent Gordon’s soul to greet his God;Long had he served his Master well—What mattered where or how he fell?Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way—Go easily to Eden’s day,Death’s trackless passage through the airGoes straight to Heaven from everywhere.Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum,Glorious alike the good man’s doom.Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room,And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom,Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost—Shall not one precious soul be lost.* * * * * * * *Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest;Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest.Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed;The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast,So summer twilights slumber in the West.* * * * * * * *A kindly voice and tapping at the doorSalute him in the early morning;Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning—“Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.”Too brief, alas, for us! but on that shoreWhere time is counted by the clock no moreThou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er—O the dread silence and its bitter grief!Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more!For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore.He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes,Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies,High in his Master’s Court in Paradise.Love’s magic lyre is mute,But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice,Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute,Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice.The accents of his tuneful tongueSounded like harp by angel strungTo melodies of Eden sung,On which his ravished audience hung:Chautauqua’s white and fluttering saluteShall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute.Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er;The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar,Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap,In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep,Confront the intrepid soul no moreNor vainly menace him with scathAs he pursued the Galilean pathTo help the friendless sick or starving poor,For India’s wretched succor to secure;Blessed Virgin, see another son!Like Him of Calvary his course has run;Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife,The applause of eager listening crowds,Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds,Are naught to him God calls from earthly strifeTo rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life.Two nations in one common griefLament the Gordons twain;Both perished in the flower of life,Swift-stricken, but not in vain;One in the storm of battle,One in his quiet room—Clasp hands o’er your untimely slain,Hopkinsville and old Khartoum.Ye both have found eternal fame,Through magic power of a noble name.Now face to face, and hand in hand,They talk in blest repose,’Neath skies which know no deadly heat,Nor winter’s bitter snows;In the opulence of Eden,Where Life’s shining river flows,On the verdant banks of the River of Life,Where the tree of Calvary grows,Where Christ Himself is Gardener,Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner,And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bowerIs Duty’s thornless rose.June 3, 1908.
And in thy glittering diademHad shone the Cross—the hallowed gemWorn by the Babe of Bethlehem,Nor Africa had sent her fettered slavesTo fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.
From the mystic land of India,In the flower of stalwart manhood,Another Gordon came—Counsellor, preacher, teacher—The foster son of Hopkinsville,Fearless and without blame;No gem in India’s richest minesShot forth a purer flame.
India’s best civic honorsHe calmly put aside—“I serve the Man of Galilee,Who upon Calvary died.Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prizeFrom Him shall me divide,For I am bidden a chosen guestTo the Lamb’s holy marriage feastTo stand by Heaven’s own bride,And I wear the rose of Sharon,As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”—O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son,Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend,Is thy eternal pride!
A yawning gulf once sunderedRome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will;Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest giftOnly the gulf can fill!”Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed,In panoply and plume,Down the dark gulf—it closes up,And thou hast met thy doom;High in Olympic halls great JoveFor the martyred youth makes room.
Immortal sacrifice! thy fameShall fly o’er every sea;The loud seas shout to every land:“Great souls are more precious than golden sand,Or all the pearls on the ocean strand,And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand;Death swallowed Curtius, but death itselfIs swallowed in victory.”And Curtius and the Gordons twain,And all who in duty’s strife are slain,Shall live immortally,And the harps of love shall sound their praiseIn the choir aboveIn sweetest melody.
Immortal is the sacred prizeOf him who for his fellow dies.Leap—not to death—a leap for lifeWas thine—far, far above the strifeAnd stress of Earth’s uncertain life—Ungrateful oft to truest worth,Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.
Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shieldOf bloody war, but to the psalmsOf poets’ harps thou wavest the palmsWhich demi-gods in glory bear,Walking the green Elysian fieldsForever free from toil or care,Chanting a soul-inspiring song,While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng.
Listen, O missionary brothers,The mighty Christian brotherhoodWho toil in surplice, gown, or hood,The rulers of each English-speaking nationProclaim the watchword of Salvation;Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers;The doves that perchWithin the belfry of the ChurchTurn carrier-doves; their rustling wingsFan every breeze with song; soft singsVictoria’s low and gentle voice,In tones which make mankind rejoice;Of India’s Empress, England’s Queen,Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene,Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation.Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation:England’s star-bannered colony,Home of the upright, brave and free,The States so wisely ruled by Washington—Like England lit by never-setting sun—Send from Columbia’s far-winding shoreThe peaceful words to Hague of Theodore;The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedgeShall guard our borders, surest pledgeOf universal lasting peace,And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease.
From Khartoum’s streets red with his bloodWent Gordon’s soul to greet his God;Long had he served his Master well—What mattered where or how he fell?Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way—Go easily to Eden’s day,Death’s trackless passage through the airGoes straight to Heaven from everywhere.Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum,Glorious alike the good man’s doom.Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room,And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom,Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost—Shall not one precious soul be lost.
* * * * * * * *
Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest;Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest.Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed;The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast,So summer twilights slumber in the West.
* * * * * * * *
A kindly voice and tapping at the doorSalute him in the early morning;Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning—“Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.”Too brief, alas, for us! but on that shoreWhere time is counted by the clock no moreThou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er—O the dread silence and its bitter grief!Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more!For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore.He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes,Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies,High in his Master’s Court in Paradise.Love’s magic lyre is mute,But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice,Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute,Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice.The accents of his tuneful tongueSounded like harp by angel strungTo melodies of Eden sung,On which his ravished audience hung:Chautauqua’s white and fluttering saluteShall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute.Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er;The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar,Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap,In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep,Confront the intrepid soul no moreNor vainly menace him with scathAs he pursued the Galilean pathTo help the friendless sick or starving poor,For India’s wretched succor to secure;Blessed Virgin, see another son!Like Him of Calvary his course has run;Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife,The applause of eager listening crowds,Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds,Are naught to him God calls from earthly strifeTo rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life.
Two nations in one common griefLament the Gordons twain;Both perished in the flower of life,Swift-stricken, but not in vain;One in the storm of battle,One in his quiet room—Clasp hands o’er your untimely slain,Hopkinsville and old Khartoum.Ye both have found eternal fame,Through magic power of a noble name.
Now face to face, and hand in hand,They talk in blest repose,’Neath skies which know no deadly heat,Nor winter’s bitter snows;In the opulence of Eden,Where Life’s shining river flows,On the verdant banks of the River of Life,Where the tree of Calvary grows,Where Christ Himself is Gardener,Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner,And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bowerIs Duty’s thornless rose.
June 3, 1908.
(Dedicated to Mrs. Grover Cleveland, “Westfield,” Princeton, N. J.)