Ice built, ice bound, and ice bounded,Such cold seas of silence! such room!Such snow-light, such sea-light, confoundedWith thunders that smite like a doom!Such grandeur! such glory! such gloom!Hear that boom! Hear that deep distant boomOf an avalanche hurledDown this unfinished world!Ice seas! and ice summits! ice spacesIn splendor of white, as God's throne!Ice worlds to the pole! and ice placesUntracked, and unnamed, and unknown!Hear that boom! Hear the grinding, the groanOf the ice-gods in pain! Hear the moanOf yon ice mountain hurledDown this unfinished world.Joaquin Miller.
Ice built, ice bound, and ice bounded,Such cold seas of silence! such room!Such snow-light, such sea-light, confoundedWith thunders that smite like a doom!Such grandeur! such glory! such gloom!Hear that boom! Hear that deep distant boomOf an avalanche hurledDown this unfinished world!Ice seas! and ice summits! ice spacesIn splendor of white, as God's throne!Ice worlds to the pole! and ice placesUntracked, and unnamed, and unknown!Hear that boom! Hear the grinding, the groanOf the ice-gods in pain! Hear the moanOf yon ice mountain hurledDown this unfinished world.Joaquin Miller.
Ice built, ice bound, and ice bounded,Such cold seas of silence! such room!Such snow-light, such sea-light, confoundedWith thunders that smite like a doom!Such grandeur! such glory! such gloom!Hear that boom! Hear that deep distant boomOf an avalanche hurledDown this unfinished world!
Ice seas! and ice summits! ice spacesIn splendor of white, as God's throne!Ice worlds to the pole! and ice placesUntracked, and unnamed, and unknown!Hear that boom! Hear the grinding, the groanOf the ice-gods in pain! Hear the moanOf yon ice mountain hurledDown this unfinished world.
Joaquin Miller.
Friday, September 24, 1869, witnessed one of the greatest panics ever known in the United States, when Jay Gould and a few associates managed to drive the price of gold up to 162½.
Friday, September 24, 1869, witnessed one of the greatest panics ever known in the United States, when Jay Gould and a few associates managed to drive the price of gold up to 162½.
ISRAEL FREYER'S BID FOR GOLD
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1869
Zounds! how the price went flashing throughWall Street, William, Broad Street, New!All the specie in all the landHeld in one Ring by a giant hand—For millions more it was ready to pay,And throttle the Street on hangman's-day.Up from the Gold Pit's nether hell,While the innocent fountain rose and fell,Loud and higher the bidding rose,And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes.It seemed as if Satan himself were in it:Lifting it—one per cent a minute—Through the bellowing broker, there amid,Who made the terrible, final bid!High over all, and ever higher,Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer,—A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart,—"Five millions more! and for any partI'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"Israel Freyer—the Government Jew—Good as the best—soaked through and throughWith credit gained in the year he soldOur Treasury's precious hoard of gold;Now through his thankless mouth rings outThe leaguers' last and cruellest shout!Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed,While a single rival's left to bleed!Down come dealers in silks and hides,Crowding the Gold Room's rounded sides,Jostling, trampling each other's feet,Uttering groans in the outer street;Watching, with upturned faces pale,The scurrying index mark its tale;Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,—That ominous voice, would it never tire?"Five millions more!—for any part(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart),I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"One Hundred and Sixty! Can't be true!What will the bears-at-forty do?How will the merchants pay their dues?How will the country stand the news?What'll the banks—but listen! hold!In screwing upward the price of goldTo that dangerous, last, particular peg,They have killed their Goose with the Golden Egg!Just there the metal came pouring out,All ways at once, like a water-spout,Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood,That drenched the bulls wherever they stood!Small need to open the Washington main,Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain!It came by runners, it came by wire,To answer the bid of Israel Freyer,It poured in millions from every side,And almost strangled him as he cried,—"I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"Like Vulcan after Jupiter's kick,Or the aphoristical Rocket's stick,Down, down, down, the premium fell,Faster than this rude rhyme can tell!Thirty per cent the index slid,Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,—"One Hundred and Sixty for any part!"—The sudden ruin had crazedhisheart,Shattered his senses, cracked his brain,And left him crying again and again,—Still making his bid at the market's top(Like the Dutchman's leg that never could stop),"One Hundred and Sixty—Five Millions more!"Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor.The very last words that seller and buyerHeard from the mouth of Israel Freyer—A cry to remember long as they live—Were, "I'll take Five Millions more! I'll give—I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil)There's such a thing as a Personal Devil,It would seem that his Highness here got hold,For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold!Whether bull or bear, it wouldn't much matterShould Israel Freyer keep up his clatterOn earth or under it (as, they say,He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day,When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for 't,Shall bid him keep silence in that Court!But it matters most, as it seems to me,That my countrymen, great and strong and free,So marvel at fellows who seem to win,That if even a Clown can only beginBy stealing a railroad, and use its purseFor cornering stocks and gold, or—worse—For buying a Judge and Legislature,And sinking still lower poor human nature,The gaping public, whatever befall,Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all!While our rich men drivel and stand amazedAt the dust and pother his gang have raised,And make us remember a nursery taleOf the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.What's bred in the bone will breed, you know;Clowns and their trainers, high and low,Will cut such capers, long as they dare,While honest Poverty says its prayer.But tell me what prayer or fast can saveSome hoary candidate for the grave,The market's wrinkled Giant Despair,Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—Founding a college or building a churchLest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!Better come out in the rival way,Issue your scrip in open day,And pour your wealth in the grimy fistOf some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;Leave toil and poverty where they lie,Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,Your pot-house fag from his counters bringAnd make him into a Railway King!Between such Gentiles and such JewsLittle enough one finds to choose:Either the other will buy and use,Eat the meat and throw him the bone,And leave him to stand the brunt alone.—Let the tempest come, that's gathering near,And give us a better atmosphere!Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Zounds! how the price went flashing throughWall Street, William, Broad Street, New!All the specie in all the landHeld in one Ring by a giant hand—For millions more it was ready to pay,And throttle the Street on hangman's-day.Up from the Gold Pit's nether hell,While the innocent fountain rose and fell,Loud and higher the bidding rose,And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes.It seemed as if Satan himself were in it:Lifting it—one per cent a minute—Through the bellowing broker, there amid,Who made the terrible, final bid!High over all, and ever higher,Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer,—A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart,—"Five millions more! and for any partI'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"Israel Freyer—the Government Jew—Good as the best—soaked through and throughWith credit gained in the year he soldOur Treasury's precious hoard of gold;Now through his thankless mouth rings outThe leaguers' last and cruellest shout!Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed,While a single rival's left to bleed!Down come dealers in silks and hides,Crowding the Gold Room's rounded sides,Jostling, trampling each other's feet,Uttering groans in the outer street;Watching, with upturned faces pale,The scurrying index mark its tale;Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,—That ominous voice, would it never tire?"Five millions more!—for any part(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart),I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"One Hundred and Sixty! Can't be true!What will the bears-at-forty do?How will the merchants pay their dues?How will the country stand the news?What'll the banks—but listen! hold!In screwing upward the price of goldTo that dangerous, last, particular peg,They have killed their Goose with the Golden Egg!Just there the metal came pouring out,All ways at once, like a water-spout,Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood,That drenched the bulls wherever they stood!Small need to open the Washington main,Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain!It came by runners, it came by wire,To answer the bid of Israel Freyer,It poured in millions from every side,And almost strangled him as he cried,—"I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"Like Vulcan after Jupiter's kick,Or the aphoristical Rocket's stick,Down, down, down, the premium fell,Faster than this rude rhyme can tell!Thirty per cent the index slid,Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,—"One Hundred and Sixty for any part!"—The sudden ruin had crazedhisheart,Shattered his senses, cracked his brain,And left him crying again and again,—Still making his bid at the market's top(Like the Dutchman's leg that never could stop),"One Hundred and Sixty—Five Millions more!"Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor.The very last words that seller and buyerHeard from the mouth of Israel Freyer—A cry to remember long as they live—Were, "I'll take Five Millions more! I'll give—I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil)There's such a thing as a Personal Devil,It would seem that his Highness here got hold,For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold!Whether bull or bear, it wouldn't much matterShould Israel Freyer keep up his clatterOn earth or under it (as, they say,He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day,When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for 't,Shall bid him keep silence in that Court!But it matters most, as it seems to me,That my countrymen, great and strong and free,So marvel at fellows who seem to win,That if even a Clown can only beginBy stealing a railroad, and use its purseFor cornering stocks and gold, or—worse—For buying a Judge and Legislature,And sinking still lower poor human nature,The gaping public, whatever befall,Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all!While our rich men drivel and stand amazedAt the dust and pother his gang have raised,And make us remember a nursery taleOf the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.What's bred in the bone will breed, you know;Clowns and their trainers, high and low,Will cut such capers, long as they dare,While honest Poverty says its prayer.But tell me what prayer or fast can saveSome hoary candidate for the grave,The market's wrinkled Giant Despair,Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—Founding a college or building a churchLest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!Better come out in the rival way,Issue your scrip in open day,And pour your wealth in the grimy fistOf some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;Leave toil and poverty where they lie,Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,Your pot-house fag from his counters bringAnd make him into a Railway King!Between such Gentiles and such JewsLittle enough one finds to choose:Either the other will buy and use,Eat the meat and throw him the bone,And leave him to stand the brunt alone.—Let the tempest come, that's gathering near,And give us a better atmosphere!Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Zounds! how the price went flashing throughWall Street, William, Broad Street, New!All the specie in all the landHeld in one Ring by a giant hand—For millions more it was ready to pay,And throttle the Street on hangman's-day.Up from the Gold Pit's nether hell,While the innocent fountain rose and fell,Loud and higher the bidding rose,And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes.It seemed as if Satan himself were in it:Lifting it—one per cent a minute—Through the bellowing broker, there amid,Who made the terrible, final bid!High over all, and ever higher,Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer,—A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart,—"Five millions more! and for any partI'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"
Israel Freyer—the Government Jew—Good as the best—soaked through and throughWith credit gained in the year he soldOur Treasury's precious hoard of gold;Now through his thankless mouth rings outThe leaguers' last and cruellest shout!Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed,While a single rival's left to bleed!Down come dealers in silks and hides,Crowding the Gold Room's rounded sides,Jostling, trampling each other's feet,Uttering groans in the outer street;Watching, with upturned faces pale,The scurrying index mark its tale;Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,—That ominous voice, would it never tire?"Five millions more!—for any part(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart),I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"
One Hundred and Sixty! Can't be true!What will the bears-at-forty do?How will the merchants pay their dues?How will the country stand the news?What'll the banks—but listen! hold!In screwing upward the price of goldTo that dangerous, last, particular peg,They have killed their Goose with the Golden Egg!Just there the metal came pouring out,All ways at once, like a water-spout,Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood,That drenched the bulls wherever they stood!Small need to open the Washington main,Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain!It came by runners, it came by wire,To answer the bid of Israel Freyer,It poured in millions from every side,And almost strangled him as he cried,—"I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"
Like Vulcan after Jupiter's kick,Or the aphoristical Rocket's stick,Down, down, down, the premium fell,Faster than this rude rhyme can tell!Thirty per cent the index slid,Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,—"One Hundred and Sixty for any part!"—The sudden ruin had crazedhisheart,Shattered his senses, cracked his brain,And left him crying again and again,—Still making his bid at the market's top(Like the Dutchman's leg that never could stop),"One Hundred and Sixty—Five Millions more!"Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor.The very last words that seller and buyerHeard from the mouth of Israel Freyer—A cry to remember long as they live—Were, "I'll take Five Millions more! I'll give—I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"
Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil)There's such a thing as a Personal Devil,It would seem that his Highness here got hold,For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold!Whether bull or bear, it wouldn't much matterShould Israel Freyer keep up his clatterOn earth or under it (as, they say,He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day,When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for 't,Shall bid him keep silence in that Court!But it matters most, as it seems to me,That my countrymen, great and strong and free,So marvel at fellows who seem to win,That if even a Clown can only beginBy stealing a railroad, and use its purseFor cornering stocks and gold, or—worse—For buying a Judge and Legislature,And sinking still lower poor human nature,The gaping public, whatever befall,Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all!While our rich men drivel and stand amazedAt the dust and pother his gang have raised,And make us remember a nursery taleOf the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.
What's bred in the bone will breed, you know;Clowns and their trainers, high and low,Will cut such capers, long as they dare,While honest Poverty says its prayer.But tell me what prayer or fast can saveSome hoary candidate for the grave,The market's wrinkled Giant Despair,Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—Founding a college or building a churchLest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!Better come out in the rival way,Issue your scrip in open day,And pour your wealth in the grimy fistOf some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;Leave toil and poverty where they lie,Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,Your pot-house fag from his counters bringAnd make him into a Railway King!Between such Gentiles and such JewsLittle enough one finds to choose:Either the other will buy and use,Eat the meat and throw him the bone,And leave him to stand the brunt alone.
—Let the tempest come, that's gathering near,And give us a better atmosphere!
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
On October 8 and 9, 1871, Chicago, which had grown to be the greatest city in the West, was almost entirely destroyed by fire. An area of three and a half square miles was burned over; two hundred people were killed and a hundred thousand rendered homeless.
On October 8 and 9, 1871, Chicago, which had grown to be the greatest city in the West, was almost entirely destroyed by fire. An area of three and a half square miles was burned over; two hundred people were killed and a hundred thousand rendered homeless.
CHICAGO
[October 8-10, 1871]
Men said at vespers: "All is well!"In one wild night the city fell;Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gainBefore the fiery hurricane.On threescore spires had sunset shone,Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.Men clasped each other's hands, and said:"The City of the West is dead!"Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,The fiends of fire from street to street,Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,The dumb defiance of despair.A sudden impulse thrilled each wireThat signalled round that sea of fire;Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;In tears of pity died the flame!From East, from West, from South and North,The messages of hope shot forth,And, underneath the severing wave,The world, full-handed, reached to save.Fair seemed the old; but fairer stillThe new, the dreary void shall fillWith dearer homes than those o'erthrown,For love shall lay each corner-stone.Rise, stricken city! from thee throwThe ashen sackcloth of thy woe;And build, as to Amphion's strain,To songs of cheer thy walls again!How shrivelled in thy hot distressThe primal sin of selfishness!How instant rose, to take thy part,The angel in the human heart!Ah! not in vain the flames that tossedAbove thy dreadful holocaust;The Christ again has preached through theeThe Gospel of Humanity!Then lift once more thy towers on high,And fret with spires the western sky,To tell that God is yet with us,And love is still miraculous!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Men said at vespers: "All is well!"In one wild night the city fell;Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gainBefore the fiery hurricane.On threescore spires had sunset shone,Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.Men clasped each other's hands, and said:"The City of the West is dead!"Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,The fiends of fire from street to street,Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,The dumb defiance of despair.A sudden impulse thrilled each wireThat signalled round that sea of fire;Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;In tears of pity died the flame!From East, from West, from South and North,The messages of hope shot forth,And, underneath the severing wave,The world, full-handed, reached to save.Fair seemed the old; but fairer stillThe new, the dreary void shall fillWith dearer homes than those o'erthrown,For love shall lay each corner-stone.Rise, stricken city! from thee throwThe ashen sackcloth of thy woe;And build, as to Amphion's strain,To songs of cheer thy walls again!How shrivelled in thy hot distressThe primal sin of selfishness!How instant rose, to take thy part,The angel in the human heart!Ah! not in vain the flames that tossedAbove thy dreadful holocaust;The Christ again has preached through theeThe Gospel of Humanity!Then lift once more thy towers on high,And fret with spires the western sky,To tell that God is yet with us,And love is still miraculous!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Men said at vespers: "All is well!"In one wild night the city fell;Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gainBefore the fiery hurricane.
On threescore spires had sunset shone,Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.Men clasped each other's hands, and said:"The City of the West is dead!"
Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,The fiends of fire from street to street,Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,The dumb defiance of despair.
A sudden impulse thrilled each wireThat signalled round that sea of fire;Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;In tears of pity died the flame!
From East, from West, from South and North,The messages of hope shot forth,And, underneath the severing wave,The world, full-handed, reached to save.
Fair seemed the old; but fairer stillThe new, the dreary void shall fillWith dearer homes than those o'erthrown,For love shall lay each corner-stone.
Rise, stricken city! from thee throwThe ashen sackcloth of thy woe;And build, as to Amphion's strain,To songs of cheer thy walls again!
How shrivelled in thy hot distressThe primal sin of selfishness!How instant rose, to take thy part,The angel in the human heart!
Ah! not in vain the flames that tossedAbove thy dreadful holocaust;The Christ again has preached through theeThe Gospel of Humanity!
Then lift once more thy towers on high,And fret with spires the western sky,To tell that God is yet with us,And love is still miraculous!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
CHICAGO
Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone,On the charred fragments of her shattered throneLies she who stood but yesterday alone.Queen of the West! by some enchanter taughtTo lift the glory of Aladdin's court,Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown,Like her own prairies in one brief day grown,Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.She lifts her voice, and in her pleading callWe hear the cry of Macedon to Paul,The cry for help that makes her kin to all.But haply with wan fingers may she feelThe silver cup hid in the proffered meal,The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.Bret Harte.
Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone,On the charred fragments of her shattered throneLies she who stood but yesterday alone.Queen of the West! by some enchanter taughtTo lift the glory of Aladdin's court,Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown,Like her own prairies in one brief day grown,Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.She lifts her voice, and in her pleading callWe hear the cry of Macedon to Paul,The cry for help that makes her kin to all.But haply with wan fingers may she feelThe silver cup hid in the proffered meal,The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.Bret Harte.
Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone,On the charred fragments of her shattered throneLies she who stood but yesterday alone.
Queen of the West! by some enchanter taughtTo lift the glory of Aladdin's court,Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.
Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown,Like her own prairies in one brief day grown,Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.
She lifts her voice, and in her pleading callWe hear the cry of Macedon to Paul,The cry for help that makes her kin to all.
But haply with wan fingers may she feelThe silver cup hid in the proffered meal,The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.
Bret Harte.
The whole country rallied to the aid of the stricken city. An Aid and Relief Society was at once formed, and within a month had received subscriptions aggregating three and a half millions.
The whole country rallied to the aid of the stricken city. An Aid and Relief Society was at once formed, and within a month had received subscriptions aggregating three and a half millions.
CHICAGO
Gaunt in the midst of the prairie,She who was once so fair;Charred and rent are her garments,Heavy and dark like cerements;Silent, but round her the airPlaintively wails, "Miserere!"Proud like a beautiful maiden,Art-like from forehead to feet,Was she till pressed like a lemanClose to the breast of the demon,Lusting for one so sweet,So were her shoulders laden.Friends she had, rich in her treasures:Shall the old taunt be true,—Fallen, they turn their cold faces,Seeking new wealth-gilded places,Saying we never knewAught of her smiles or her pleasures?Silent she stands on the prairie,Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet:Around her, thank God, is the Nation,Weeping for her desolation,Pouring its gold at her feet,Answering her "Miserere!"John Boyle O'Reilly.
Gaunt in the midst of the prairie,She who was once so fair;Charred and rent are her garments,Heavy and dark like cerements;Silent, but round her the airPlaintively wails, "Miserere!"Proud like a beautiful maiden,Art-like from forehead to feet,Was she till pressed like a lemanClose to the breast of the demon,Lusting for one so sweet,So were her shoulders laden.Friends she had, rich in her treasures:Shall the old taunt be true,—Fallen, they turn their cold faces,Seeking new wealth-gilded places,Saying we never knewAught of her smiles or her pleasures?Silent she stands on the prairie,Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet:Around her, thank God, is the Nation,Weeping for her desolation,Pouring its gold at her feet,Answering her "Miserere!"John Boyle O'Reilly.
Gaunt in the midst of the prairie,She who was once so fair;Charred and rent are her garments,Heavy and dark like cerements;Silent, but round her the airPlaintively wails, "Miserere!"
Proud like a beautiful maiden,Art-like from forehead to feet,Was she till pressed like a lemanClose to the breast of the demon,Lusting for one so sweet,So were her shoulders laden.
Friends she had, rich in her treasures:Shall the old taunt be true,—Fallen, they turn their cold faces,Seeking new wealth-gilded places,Saying we never knewAught of her smiles or her pleasures?
Silent she stands on the prairie,Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet:Around her, thank God, is the Nation,Weeping for her desolation,Pouring its gold at her feet,Answering her "Miserere!"
John Boyle O'Reilly.
Only second to the Chicago fire in destructiveness was that which visited Boston in the following year. It started on Saturday evening, November 9, 1872, and sixty-five acres were laid waste before it was controlled.
Only second to the Chicago fire in destructiveness was that which visited Boston in the following year. It started on Saturday evening, November 9, 1872, and sixty-five acres were laid waste before it was controlled.
BOSTON
[November 9, 1872]
O broad-breasted Queen among Nations!O Mother, so strong in thy youth!Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire,And willed thou be chastened by fire,Without any ruth?Has the Merciful tired of His mercy,And turned from thy sinning in wrath,That the world with raised hand sees and pitiesThy desolate daughters, thy cities,Despoiled on their path?One year since thy youngest was stricken:Thy eldest lies stricken to-day.Ah! God, was Thy wrath without pity,To tear the strong heart from our city,And cast it away?O Father! forgive us our doubting;The stain from our weak souls efface;Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten,Thy hand has but fallen to hastenReturn to Thy grace.Let us rise purified from our ashesAs sinners have risen who grieved;Let us show that twice-sent desolationOn every true heart in the nationHas conquest achieved.John Boyle O'Reilly.
O broad-breasted Queen among Nations!O Mother, so strong in thy youth!Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire,And willed thou be chastened by fire,Without any ruth?Has the Merciful tired of His mercy,And turned from thy sinning in wrath,That the world with raised hand sees and pitiesThy desolate daughters, thy cities,Despoiled on their path?One year since thy youngest was stricken:Thy eldest lies stricken to-day.Ah! God, was Thy wrath without pity,To tear the strong heart from our city,And cast it away?O Father! forgive us our doubting;The stain from our weak souls efface;Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten,Thy hand has but fallen to hastenReturn to Thy grace.Let us rise purified from our ashesAs sinners have risen who grieved;Let us show that twice-sent desolationOn every true heart in the nationHas conquest achieved.John Boyle O'Reilly.
O broad-breasted Queen among Nations!O Mother, so strong in thy youth!Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire,And willed thou be chastened by fire,Without any ruth?
Has the Merciful tired of His mercy,And turned from thy sinning in wrath,That the world with raised hand sees and pitiesThy desolate daughters, thy cities,Despoiled on their path?
One year since thy youngest was stricken:Thy eldest lies stricken to-day.Ah! God, was Thy wrath without pity,To tear the strong heart from our city,And cast it away?
O Father! forgive us our doubting;The stain from our weak souls efface;Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten,Thy hand has but fallen to hastenReturn to Thy grace.
Let us rise purified from our ashesAs sinners have risen who grieved;Let us show that twice-sent desolationOn every true heart in the nationHas conquest achieved.
John Boyle O'Reilly.
The district burned contained the finest business blocks in the city, and the loss was estimated at $80,000,000. For a time, it seemed that the famous "Old South" would be destroyed.
The district burned contained the finest business blocks in the city, and the loss was estimated at $80,000,000. For a time, it seemed that the famous "Old South" would be destroyed.
THE CHURCH OF THE REVOLUTION
"The Old South stands."
Loud through the still November airThe clang and clash of fire-bells broke;From street to street, from square to square,Rolled sheets of flame and clouds of smoke.The marble structures reeled and fell,The iron pillars bowed like lead;But one lone spire rang on its bellAbove the flames. Men passed, and said,"The Old South stands!"The gold moon, 'gainst a copper sky,Hung like a portent in the air,The midnight came, the wind rose high,And men stood speechless in despair.But, as the marble columns broke,And wider grew the chasm red,—A seething gulf of flame and smoke,—The firemen marked the spire and said,"The Old South stands!"Beyond the harbor, calm and fair,The sun came up through bars of gold,Then faded in a wannish glare,As flame and smoke still upward rolled.The princely structures, crowned with art,Where Commerce laid her treasures bare;The haunts of trade, the common mart,All vanished in the withering air,—"The Old South stands!""The Old South must be levelled soonTo check the flames and save the street;Bring fuse and powder." But at noonThe ancient fane still stood complete.The mitred flame had lipped the spire,The smoke its blackness o'er it cast;Then, hero-like, men fought the fire,And from each lip the watchword passed,—"The Old South stands!"All night the red sea round it rolled,And o'er it fell the fiery rain:And, as each hour the old clock told,Men said, "'Twill never strike again!"But still the dial-plate at mornWas crimsoned in the rising light.Long may it redden with the dawn,And mark the shading hours of night!Long may it stand!Long may it stand! where help was soughtIn weak and dark and doubtful days:Where freedom's lessons first were taught,And prayers of faith were turned to praise;Where burned the first Shekinah's flameIn God's new temples of the free;Long may it stand, in freedom's name,Like Israel's pillar by the sea!Long may it stand!Hezekiah Butterworth.
Loud through the still November airThe clang and clash of fire-bells broke;From street to street, from square to square,Rolled sheets of flame and clouds of smoke.The marble structures reeled and fell,The iron pillars bowed like lead;But one lone spire rang on its bellAbove the flames. Men passed, and said,"The Old South stands!"The gold moon, 'gainst a copper sky,Hung like a portent in the air,The midnight came, the wind rose high,And men stood speechless in despair.But, as the marble columns broke,And wider grew the chasm red,—A seething gulf of flame and smoke,—The firemen marked the spire and said,"The Old South stands!"Beyond the harbor, calm and fair,The sun came up through bars of gold,Then faded in a wannish glare,As flame and smoke still upward rolled.The princely structures, crowned with art,Where Commerce laid her treasures bare;The haunts of trade, the common mart,All vanished in the withering air,—"The Old South stands!""The Old South must be levelled soonTo check the flames and save the street;Bring fuse and powder." But at noonThe ancient fane still stood complete.The mitred flame had lipped the spire,The smoke its blackness o'er it cast;Then, hero-like, men fought the fire,And from each lip the watchword passed,—"The Old South stands!"All night the red sea round it rolled,And o'er it fell the fiery rain:And, as each hour the old clock told,Men said, "'Twill never strike again!"But still the dial-plate at mornWas crimsoned in the rising light.Long may it redden with the dawn,And mark the shading hours of night!Long may it stand!Long may it stand! where help was soughtIn weak and dark and doubtful days:Where freedom's lessons first were taught,And prayers of faith were turned to praise;Where burned the first Shekinah's flameIn God's new temples of the free;Long may it stand, in freedom's name,Like Israel's pillar by the sea!Long may it stand!Hezekiah Butterworth.
Loud through the still November airThe clang and clash of fire-bells broke;From street to street, from square to square,Rolled sheets of flame and clouds of smoke.The marble structures reeled and fell,The iron pillars bowed like lead;But one lone spire rang on its bellAbove the flames. Men passed, and said,"The Old South stands!"
The gold moon, 'gainst a copper sky,Hung like a portent in the air,The midnight came, the wind rose high,And men stood speechless in despair.But, as the marble columns broke,And wider grew the chasm red,—A seething gulf of flame and smoke,—The firemen marked the spire and said,"The Old South stands!"
Beyond the harbor, calm and fair,The sun came up through bars of gold,Then faded in a wannish glare,As flame and smoke still upward rolled.The princely structures, crowned with art,Where Commerce laid her treasures bare;The haunts of trade, the common mart,All vanished in the withering air,—"The Old South stands!"
"The Old South must be levelled soonTo check the flames and save the street;Bring fuse and powder." But at noonThe ancient fane still stood complete.The mitred flame had lipped the spire,The smoke its blackness o'er it cast;Then, hero-like, men fought the fire,And from each lip the watchword passed,—"The Old South stands!"
All night the red sea round it rolled,And o'er it fell the fiery rain:And, as each hour the old clock told,Men said, "'Twill never strike again!"But still the dial-plate at mornWas crimsoned in the rising light.Long may it redden with the dawn,And mark the shading hours of night!Long may it stand!
Long may it stand! where help was soughtIn weak and dark and doubtful days:Where freedom's lessons first were taught,And prayers of faith were turned to praise;Where burned the first Shekinah's flameIn God's new temples of the free;Long may it stand, in freedom's name,Like Israel's pillar by the sea!Long may it stand!
Hezekiah Butterworth.
The nation rushed to Boston's aid just as it had done to Chicago's, and the city soon rose from her ashes greater than ever.
The nation rushed to Boston's aid just as it had done to Chicago's, and the city soon rose from her ashes greater than ever.
AFTER THE FIRE
While far along the eastern skyI saw the flags of Havoc fly,As if his forces would assaultThe sovereign of the starry vaultAnd hurl Him back the burning rainThat seared the cities of the plain,I read as on a crimson pageThe words of Israel's sceptred sage:—For riches make them wings, and theyDo as an eagle fly away.O vision of that sleepless night,What hue shall paint the mocking lightThat burned and stained the orient skiesWhere peaceful morning loves to rise,As if the sun had lost his wayAnd dawned to make a second day,—Above how red with fiery glow,How dark to those it woke below!On roof and wall, on dome and spire,Flashed the false jewels of the fire;Girt with her belt of glittering panes,And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes,Our northern queen in glory shoneWith new-born splendors not her own,And stood, transfigured in our eyes,A victim decked for sacrifice!The cloud still hovers overhead,And still the midnight sky is red;As the lost wanderer strays aloneTo seek the place he called his own,His devious footprints sadly tellHow changed the pathways known so well;The scene, how new! The tale, how oldEre yet the ashes have grown cold!Again I read the words that cameWrit in the rubric of the flame:Howe'er we trust to mortal things,Each hath its pair of folded wings;Though long their terrors rest unspreadTheir fatal plumes are never shed;At last, at last, they stretch in flight,And blot the day and blast the night!Hope, only Hope, of all that clingsAround us, never spreads her wings;Love, though he break his earthly chain,Still whispers he will come again;But Faith that soars to seek the skyShall teach our half-fledged souls to fly,And find, beyond the smoke and flame,The cloudless azure whence they came!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
While far along the eastern skyI saw the flags of Havoc fly,As if his forces would assaultThe sovereign of the starry vaultAnd hurl Him back the burning rainThat seared the cities of the plain,I read as on a crimson pageThe words of Israel's sceptred sage:—For riches make them wings, and theyDo as an eagle fly away.O vision of that sleepless night,What hue shall paint the mocking lightThat burned and stained the orient skiesWhere peaceful morning loves to rise,As if the sun had lost his wayAnd dawned to make a second day,—Above how red with fiery glow,How dark to those it woke below!On roof and wall, on dome and spire,Flashed the false jewels of the fire;Girt with her belt of glittering panes,And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes,Our northern queen in glory shoneWith new-born splendors not her own,And stood, transfigured in our eyes,A victim decked for sacrifice!The cloud still hovers overhead,And still the midnight sky is red;As the lost wanderer strays aloneTo seek the place he called his own,His devious footprints sadly tellHow changed the pathways known so well;The scene, how new! The tale, how oldEre yet the ashes have grown cold!Again I read the words that cameWrit in the rubric of the flame:Howe'er we trust to mortal things,Each hath its pair of folded wings;Though long their terrors rest unspreadTheir fatal plumes are never shed;At last, at last, they stretch in flight,And blot the day and blast the night!Hope, only Hope, of all that clingsAround us, never spreads her wings;Love, though he break his earthly chain,Still whispers he will come again;But Faith that soars to seek the skyShall teach our half-fledged souls to fly,And find, beyond the smoke and flame,The cloudless azure whence they came!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
While far along the eastern skyI saw the flags of Havoc fly,As if his forces would assaultThe sovereign of the starry vaultAnd hurl Him back the burning rainThat seared the cities of the plain,I read as on a crimson pageThe words of Israel's sceptred sage:—
For riches make them wings, and theyDo as an eagle fly away.
O vision of that sleepless night,What hue shall paint the mocking lightThat burned and stained the orient skiesWhere peaceful morning loves to rise,As if the sun had lost his wayAnd dawned to make a second day,—Above how red with fiery glow,How dark to those it woke below!
On roof and wall, on dome and spire,Flashed the false jewels of the fire;Girt with her belt of glittering panes,And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes,Our northern queen in glory shoneWith new-born splendors not her own,And stood, transfigured in our eyes,A victim decked for sacrifice!
The cloud still hovers overhead,And still the midnight sky is red;As the lost wanderer strays aloneTo seek the place he called his own,His devious footprints sadly tellHow changed the pathways known so well;The scene, how new! The tale, how oldEre yet the ashes have grown cold!
Again I read the words that cameWrit in the rubric of the flame:Howe'er we trust to mortal things,Each hath its pair of folded wings;Though long their terrors rest unspreadTheir fatal plumes are never shed;At last, at last, they stretch in flight,And blot the day and blast the night!
Hope, only Hope, of all that clingsAround us, never spreads her wings;Love, though he break his earthly chain,Still whispers he will come again;But Faith that soars to seek the skyShall teach our half-fledged souls to fly,And find, beyond the smoke and flame,The cloudless azure whence they came!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
On May 16, 1874, the bursting of a reservoir dam at Williamsburg, Mass., caused a disastrous flood, costing one hundred and forty lives and the loss of $1,500,000 in property. The loss of life would have been far greater but for the heroism of a milkman named Collins Graves, who rode forward in front of the flood, giving warning.
On May 16, 1874, the bursting of a reservoir dam at Williamsburg, Mass., caused a disastrous flood, costing one hundred and forty lives and the loss of $1,500,000 in property. The loss of life would have been far greater but for the heroism of a milkman named Collins Graves, who rode forward in front of the flood, giving warning.
THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES
[May 16, 1874]
No song of a soldier riding downTo the raging fight from Winchester town;No song of a time that shook the earthWith the nations' throe at a nation's birth;But the song of a brave man, free from fearAs Sheridan's self or Paul Revere;Who risked what they risked, free from strifeAnd its promise of glorious pay,—his life!The peaceful valley has waked and stirred,And the answering echoes of life are heard;The dew still clings to the trees and grass,And the early toilers smiling pass,As they glance aside at the white-walled homes,Or up the valley, where merrily comesThe brook that sparkles in diamond rillsAs the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.What was it passed like an ominous breath—Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death?What was it? The valley is peaceful still,And the leaves are afire on top of the hill;It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,—But a pain, like the pang of the short suspenseThat thrills the being of those who seeAt their feet the gulf of Eternity.The air of the valley has felt the chill;The workers pause at the door of the mill;The housewife, keen to the shivering air,Arrests her foot on the cottage stair,Instinctive taught by the mother-love,And thinks of the sleeping ones above.Why start the listeners? Why does the courseOf the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse—"Hark to the sound of the hoofs!" they say—That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way?God! what was that, like a human shriekFrom the winding valley? Will nobody speak?Will nobody answer those women who cryAs the awful warnings thunder by?Whence come they? Listen! and now they hearThe sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near;They watch the trend of the vale, and seeThe rider who thunders so menacingly,With waving arms and warning screamTo the home-filled banks of the valley stream.He draws no rein, but he shakes the streetWith a shout and the ring of the galloping feet,And this the cry he flings to the wind,—"To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"He cries and is gone, but they know the worst,—The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst!The basin that nourished their happy homesIs changed to a demon. It comes! it comes!A monster in aspect, with shaggy frontOf shattered dwellings to take the bruntOf the homes they shatter;—white-maned and hoarse,The merciless Terror fills the courseOf the narrow valley, and rushing raves,With death on the first of its hissing waves,Till cottage and street and crowded millAre crumbled and crushed.But onward still,In front of the roaring flood, is heardThe galloping horse and the warning word.Thank God! the brave man's life is spared!From Williamsburg town he nobly daredTo race with the flood, and take the roadIn front of the terrible swath it mowed.For miles it thundered and crashed behind,But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind:"They must be warned!" was all he said,As away on his terrible ride he sped.When heroes are called for, bring the crownTo this Yankee rider; send him downOn the stream of time with the Curtius old;His deed, as the Roman's, was brave and bold;And the tale can as noble a thrill awake,For he offered his life for the people's sake!John Boyle O'Reilly.
No song of a soldier riding downTo the raging fight from Winchester town;No song of a time that shook the earthWith the nations' throe at a nation's birth;But the song of a brave man, free from fearAs Sheridan's self or Paul Revere;Who risked what they risked, free from strifeAnd its promise of glorious pay,—his life!The peaceful valley has waked and stirred,And the answering echoes of life are heard;The dew still clings to the trees and grass,And the early toilers smiling pass,As they glance aside at the white-walled homes,Or up the valley, where merrily comesThe brook that sparkles in diamond rillsAs the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.What was it passed like an ominous breath—Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death?What was it? The valley is peaceful still,And the leaves are afire on top of the hill;It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,—But a pain, like the pang of the short suspenseThat thrills the being of those who seeAt their feet the gulf of Eternity.The air of the valley has felt the chill;The workers pause at the door of the mill;The housewife, keen to the shivering air,Arrests her foot on the cottage stair,Instinctive taught by the mother-love,And thinks of the sleeping ones above.Why start the listeners? Why does the courseOf the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse—"Hark to the sound of the hoofs!" they say—That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way?God! what was that, like a human shriekFrom the winding valley? Will nobody speak?Will nobody answer those women who cryAs the awful warnings thunder by?Whence come they? Listen! and now they hearThe sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near;They watch the trend of the vale, and seeThe rider who thunders so menacingly,With waving arms and warning screamTo the home-filled banks of the valley stream.He draws no rein, but he shakes the streetWith a shout and the ring of the galloping feet,And this the cry he flings to the wind,—"To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"He cries and is gone, but they know the worst,—The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst!The basin that nourished their happy homesIs changed to a demon. It comes! it comes!A monster in aspect, with shaggy frontOf shattered dwellings to take the bruntOf the homes they shatter;—white-maned and hoarse,The merciless Terror fills the courseOf the narrow valley, and rushing raves,With death on the first of its hissing waves,Till cottage and street and crowded millAre crumbled and crushed.But onward still,In front of the roaring flood, is heardThe galloping horse and the warning word.Thank God! the brave man's life is spared!From Williamsburg town he nobly daredTo race with the flood, and take the roadIn front of the terrible swath it mowed.For miles it thundered and crashed behind,But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind:"They must be warned!" was all he said,As away on his terrible ride he sped.When heroes are called for, bring the crownTo this Yankee rider; send him downOn the stream of time with the Curtius old;His deed, as the Roman's, was brave and bold;And the tale can as noble a thrill awake,For he offered his life for the people's sake!John Boyle O'Reilly.
No song of a soldier riding downTo the raging fight from Winchester town;No song of a time that shook the earthWith the nations' throe at a nation's birth;But the song of a brave man, free from fearAs Sheridan's self or Paul Revere;Who risked what they risked, free from strifeAnd its promise of glorious pay,—his life!
The peaceful valley has waked and stirred,And the answering echoes of life are heard;The dew still clings to the trees and grass,And the early toilers smiling pass,As they glance aside at the white-walled homes,Or up the valley, where merrily comesThe brook that sparkles in diamond rillsAs the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.
What was it passed like an ominous breath—Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death?What was it? The valley is peaceful still,And the leaves are afire on top of the hill;It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,—But a pain, like the pang of the short suspenseThat thrills the being of those who seeAt their feet the gulf of Eternity.
The air of the valley has felt the chill;The workers pause at the door of the mill;The housewife, keen to the shivering air,Arrests her foot on the cottage stair,Instinctive taught by the mother-love,And thinks of the sleeping ones above.
Why start the listeners? Why does the courseOf the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse—"Hark to the sound of the hoofs!" they say—That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way?
God! what was that, like a human shriekFrom the winding valley? Will nobody speak?Will nobody answer those women who cryAs the awful warnings thunder by?
Whence come they? Listen! and now they hearThe sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near;They watch the trend of the vale, and seeThe rider who thunders so menacingly,With waving arms and warning screamTo the home-filled banks of the valley stream.He draws no rein, but he shakes the streetWith a shout and the ring of the galloping feet,And this the cry he flings to the wind,—"To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"
He cries and is gone, but they know the worst,—The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst!The basin that nourished their happy homesIs changed to a demon. It comes! it comes!
A monster in aspect, with shaggy frontOf shattered dwellings to take the bruntOf the homes they shatter;—white-maned and hoarse,The merciless Terror fills the courseOf the narrow valley, and rushing raves,With death on the first of its hissing waves,Till cottage and street and crowded millAre crumbled and crushed.But onward still,In front of the roaring flood, is heardThe galloping horse and the warning word.Thank God! the brave man's life is spared!From Williamsburg town he nobly daredTo race with the flood, and take the roadIn front of the terrible swath it mowed.
For miles it thundered and crashed behind,But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind:"They must be warned!" was all he said,As away on his terrible ride he sped.
When heroes are called for, bring the crownTo this Yankee rider; send him downOn the stream of time with the Curtius old;His deed, as the Roman's, was brave and bold;And the tale can as noble a thrill awake,For he offered his life for the people's sake!
John Boyle O'Reilly.
THE YEAR OF A HUNDRED YEARS
The year 1876 marked the completion of the first century of independence, and it was decided to celebrate it in a worthy manner. The city of Philadelphia, where the country had been born, was fittingly selected as the place for the celebration.
The year 1876 marked the completion of the first century of independence, and it was decided to celebrate it in a worthy manner. The city of Philadelphia, where the country had been born, was fittingly selected as the place for the celebration.
OUR FIRST CENTURY
It cannot be that men who are the seedOf Washington should miss fame's true applause;Franklin did plan us; Marshall gave us laws;And slow the broad scroll grew a people's creed—Union and Liberty! then at our need,Time's challenge coming, Lincoln gave it pause,Upheld the double pillars of the cause,And dying left them whole—our crowning deed.Such was the fathering race that made all fast,Who founded us, and spread from sea to seaA thousand leagues the zone of liberty,And built for man this refuge from his past,Unkinged, unchurched, unsoldiered; shamed were we,Failing the stature that such sires forecast!George Edward Woodberry.
It cannot be that men who are the seedOf Washington should miss fame's true applause;Franklin did plan us; Marshall gave us laws;And slow the broad scroll grew a people's creed—Union and Liberty! then at our need,Time's challenge coming, Lincoln gave it pause,Upheld the double pillars of the cause,And dying left them whole—our crowning deed.Such was the fathering race that made all fast,Who founded us, and spread from sea to seaA thousand leagues the zone of liberty,And built for man this refuge from his past,Unkinged, unchurched, unsoldiered; shamed were we,Failing the stature that such sires forecast!George Edward Woodberry.
It cannot be that men who are the seedOf Washington should miss fame's true applause;Franklin did plan us; Marshall gave us laws;And slow the broad scroll grew a people's creed—Union and Liberty! then at our need,Time's challenge coming, Lincoln gave it pause,Upheld the double pillars of the cause,And dying left them whole—our crowning deed.
Such was the fathering race that made all fast,Who founded us, and spread from sea to seaA thousand leagues the zone of liberty,And built for man this refuge from his past,Unkinged, unchurched, unsoldiered; shamed were we,Failing the stature that such sires forecast!
George Edward Woodberry.
The celebration took the form of a great industrial exposition, at which the arts and industries of the whole world were represented. The exposition was opened on May 10, 1876, more than a hundred thousand people being present. Wagner had composed a march for the occasion and Whittier's "Centennial Hymn" was sung by a chorus of a thousand voices.
The celebration took the form of a great industrial exposition, at which the arts and industries of the whole world were represented. The exposition was opened on May 10, 1876, more than a hundred thousand people being present. Wagner had composed a march for the occasion and Whittier's "Centennial Hymn" was sung by a chorus of a thousand voices.
CENTENNIAL HYMN
IOur fathers' God! from out whose handThe centuries fall like grains of sand,We meet to-day, united, free,And loyal to our land and Thee,To thank Thee for the era done,And trust Thee for the opening one.IIHere, where of old, by Thy design,The fathers spake that word of ThineWhose echo is the glad refrainOf rended bolt and falling chain,To grace our festal time, from allThe zones of earth our guests we call.IIIBe with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streets,Unveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.IVThou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath our Western skies fulfilThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.VFor art and labor met in truce,For beauty made the bride of use,We thank Thee; but, withal, we craveThe austere virtues strong to save,The honor proof to place or gold,The manhood never bought nor sold!VIOh make Thou us, through centuries long,In peace secure, in justice strong;Around our gift of freedom drawThe safeguards of Thy righteous law:And, cast in some diviner mould,Let the new cycle shame the old!John Greenleaf Whittier.
IOur fathers' God! from out whose handThe centuries fall like grains of sand,We meet to-day, united, free,And loyal to our land and Thee,To thank Thee for the era done,And trust Thee for the opening one.IIHere, where of old, by Thy design,The fathers spake that word of ThineWhose echo is the glad refrainOf rended bolt and falling chain,To grace our festal time, from allThe zones of earth our guests we call.IIIBe with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streets,Unveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.IVThou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath our Western skies fulfilThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.VFor art and labor met in truce,For beauty made the bride of use,We thank Thee; but, withal, we craveThe austere virtues strong to save,The honor proof to place or gold,The manhood never bought nor sold!VIOh make Thou us, through centuries long,In peace secure, in justice strong;Around our gift of freedom drawThe safeguards of Thy righteous law:And, cast in some diviner mould,Let the new cycle shame the old!John Greenleaf Whittier.
IOur fathers' God! from out whose handThe centuries fall like grains of sand,We meet to-day, united, free,And loyal to our land and Thee,To thank Thee for the era done,And trust Thee for the opening one.
IIHere, where of old, by Thy design,The fathers spake that word of ThineWhose echo is the glad refrainOf rended bolt and falling chain,To grace our festal time, from allThe zones of earth our guests we call.
IIIBe with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streets,Unveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.
IVThou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath our Western skies fulfilThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.
VFor art and labor met in truce,For beauty made the bride of use,We thank Thee; but, withal, we craveThe austere virtues strong to save,The honor proof to place or gold,The manhood never bought nor sold!
VIOh make Thou us, through centuries long,In peace secure, in justice strong;Around our gift of freedom drawThe safeguards of Thy righteous law:And, cast in some diviner mould,Let the new cycle shame the old!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
"The restored South chanted the praises of the Union in the words of Sidney Lanier, the Georgia poet." The poem was written as a cantata, the music for which was composed by Dudley Buck.
"The restored South chanted the praises of the Union in the words of Sidney Lanier, the Georgia poet." The poem was written as a cantata, the music for which was composed by Dudley Buck.
THE CENTENNIAL MEDITATION OF COLUMBIA[13]
1776-1876
From this hundred-terraced height,Sight more large with nobler lightRanges down yon towering years.Humbler smiles and lordlier tearsShine and fall, shine and fall,While old voices rise and callYonder where the to-and-froWeltering of my Long-AgoMoves about the moveless baseFar below my resting-place.Mayflower, Mayflower, slowly hither flying,Trembling westward o'er yon balking sea,Hearts withinFarewell dear Englandsighing,Winds withoutBut dear in vainreplying,Gray-lipp'd waves about thee shouted, crying"No! It shall not be!"Jamestown, out of thee—Plymouth, thee—thee, Albany—Winter cries,Ye freeze: away!Fever cries,Ye burn: away!Hunger cries,Ye starve: away!Vengeance cries,Your graves shall stay!Then old Shapes and Masks of Things,Framed like Faiths or clothed like Kings,Ghosts of Goods once fleshed and fair,Grown foul Bads in alien air—War, and his most noisy lords,Tongued with lithe and poisoned swords—Error, Terror, Rage, and Crime,All in a windy night of timeCried to me from land and sea,No! Thou shalt not be!Hark!Huguenots whisperingyeain the dark,Puritans answeringyeain the dark!Yealike an arrow shot true to his mark,Darts through the tyrannous heart of Denial.Patience and Labor and solemn-souled Trial,Foiled, still beginning,Soiled, but not sinning.Toil through the stertorous death of the Night,Toil when wild brother-wars new-dark the Light,Toil, and forgive, and kiss o'er, and replight.Now Praise to God's oft-granted grace,Now Praise to Man's undaunted face,Despite the land, despite the sea,I was: I am: and I shall be—How long, Good Angel, O how long?Sing me from Heaven a man's own song!"Long as thine Art shall love true love,Long as thy Science truth shall know,Long as thine Eagle harms no Dove,Long as thy Law by law shall grow,Long as thy God is God above,Thy brother every man below,So long, dear Land of all my love,Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow!"O Music, from this height of time my Word unfold:In thy large signals all men's hearts Man's heart behold:Mid-heaven unroll thy chords as friendly flags unfurled,And wave the world's best lover's welcome to the world.Sidney Lanier.
From this hundred-terraced height,Sight more large with nobler lightRanges down yon towering years.Humbler smiles and lordlier tearsShine and fall, shine and fall,While old voices rise and callYonder where the to-and-froWeltering of my Long-AgoMoves about the moveless baseFar below my resting-place.Mayflower, Mayflower, slowly hither flying,Trembling westward o'er yon balking sea,Hearts withinFarewell dear Englandsighing,Winds withoutBut dear in vainreplying,Gray-lipp'd waves about thee shouted, crying"No! It shall not be!"Jamestown, out of thee—Plymouth, thee—thee, Albany—Winter cries,Ye freeze: away!Fever cries,Ye burn: away!Hunger cries,Ye starve: away!Vengeance cries,Your graves shall stay!Then old Shapes and Masks of Things,Framed like Faiths or clothed like Kings,Ghosts of Goods once fleshed and fair,Grown foul Bads in alien air—War, and his most noisy lords,Tongued with lithe and poisoned swords—Error, Terror, Rage, and Crime,All in a windy night of timeCried to me from land and sea,No! Thou shalt not be!Hark!Huguenots whisperingyeain the dark,Puritans answeringyeain the dark!Yealike an arrow shot true to his mark,Darts through the tyrannous heart of Denial.Patience and Labor and solemn-souled Trial,Foiled, still beginning,Soiled, but not sinning.Toil through the stertorous death of the Night,Toil when wild brother-wars new-dark the Light,Toil, and forgive, and kiss o'er, and replight.Now Praise to God's oft-granted grace,Now Praise to Man's undaunted face,Despite the land, despite the sea,I was: I am: and I shall be—How long, Good Angel, O how long?Sing me from Heaven a man's own song!"Long as thine Art shall love true love,Long as thy Science truth shall know,Long as thine Eagle harms no Dove,Long as thy Law by law shall grow,Long as thy God is God above,Thy brother every man below,So long, dear Land of all my love,Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow!"O Music, from this height of time my Word unfold:In thy large signals all men's hearts Man's heart behold:Mid-heaven unroll thy chords as friendly flags unfurled,And wave the world's best lover's welcome to the world.Sidney Lanier.
From this hundred-terraced height,Sight more large with nobler lightRanges down yon towering years.Humbler smiles and lordlier tearsShine and fall, shine and fall,While old voices rise and callYonder where the to-and-froWeltering of my Long-AgoMoves about the moveless baseFar below my resting-place.
Mayflower, Mayflower, slowly hither flying,Trembling westward o'er yon balking sea,Hearts withinFarewell dear Englandsighing,Winds withoutBut dear in vainreplying,Gray-lipp'd waves about thee shouted, crying"No! It shall not be!"
Jamestown, out of thee—Plymouth, thee—thee, Albany—Winter cries,Ye freeze: away!Fever cries,Ye burn: away!Hunger cries,Ye starve: away!Vengeance cries,Your graves shall stay!
Then old Shapes and Masks of Things,Framed like Faiths or clothed like Kings,Ghosts of Goods once fleshed and fair,Grown foul Bads in alien air—War, and his most noisy lords,Tongued with lithe and poisoned swords—Error, Terror, Rage, and Crime,All in a windy night of timeCried to me from land and sea,No! Thou shalt not be!
Hark!Huguenots whisperingyeain the dark,Puritans answeringyeain the dark!Yealike an arrow shot true to his mark,Darts through the tyrannous heart of Denial.Patience and Labor and solemn-souled Trial,Foiled, still beginning,Soiled, but not sinning.Toil through the stertorous death of the Night,Toil when wild brother-wars new-dark the Light,Toil, and forgive, and kiss o'er, and replight.
Now Praise to God's oft-granted grace,Now Praise to Man's undaunted face,Despite the land, despite the sea,I was: I am: and I shall be—How long, Good Angel, O how long?Sing me from Heaven a man's own song!
"Long as thine Art shall love true love,Long as thy Science truth shall know,Long as thine Eagle harms no Dove,Long as thy Law by law shall grow,Long as thy God is God above,Thy brother every man below,So long, dear Land of all my love,Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow!"
O Music, from this height of time my Word unfold:In thy large signals all men's hearts Man's heart behold:Mid-heaven unroll thy chords as friendly flags unfurled,And wave the world's best lover's welcome to the world.
Sidney Lanier.
President Grant then declared the exposition open. It was a success from the very start, and great crowds were every day in attendance.
President Grant then declared the exposition open. It was a success from the very start, and great crowds were every day in attendance.
CENTENNIAL HYMN
1876
Through calm and storm the years have ledOur nation on, from stage to stage—A century's space—until we treadThe threshold of another age.We see where o'er our pathway sweptA torrent-stream of blood and fire,And thank the Guardian Power who keptOur sacred League of States entire.Oh, chequered train of years, farewell!With all thy strifes and hopes and fears!Yet with us let thy memories dwell,To warn and teach the coming years.And thou, the new-beginning age,Warned by the past, and not in vain,Write on a fairer, whiter page,The record of thy happier reign.William Cullen Bryant.
Through calm and storm the years have ledOur nation on, from stage to stage—A century's space—until we treadThe threshold of another age.We see where o'er our pathway sweptA torrent-stream of blood and fire,And thank the Guardian Power who keptOur sacred League of States entire.Oh, chequered train of years, farewell!With all thy strifes and hopes and fears!Yet with us let thy memories dwell,To warn and teach the coming years.And thou, the new-beginning age,Warned by the past, and not in vain,Write on a fairer, whiter page,The record of thy happier reign.William Cullen Bryant.
Through calm and storm the years have ledOur nation on, from stage to stage—A century's space—until we treadThe threshold of another age.
We see where o'er our pathway sweptA torrent-stream of blood and fire,And thank the Guardian Power who keptOur sacred League of States entire.
Oh, chequered train of years, farewell!With all thy strifes and hopes and fears!Yet with us let thy memories dwell,To warn and teach the coming years.
And thou, the new-beginning age,Warned by the past, and not in vain,Write on a fairer, whiter page,The record of thy happier reign.
William Cullen Bryant.
On July 4, 1876, simple but impressive exercises were held in the public square in the rear of Independence Hall, where, a century before, a great throng had awaited the promulgation of the "Declaration."
On July 4, 1876, simple but impressive exercises were held in the public square in the rear of Independence Hall, where, a century before, a great throng had awaited the promulgation of the "Declaration."
WELCOME TO THE NATIONS
PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876
Bright on the banners of lily and roseLo! the last sun of our century sets!Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,All but her friendships the nation forgets!All but her friends and their welcome forgets!These are around her; but where are her foes?Lo, while the sun of her century sets,Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swellWakes the wild echoes that slumber around!Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell;Welcome! the walls of her temple resound!Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound!Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell;Welcome! still whisper the echoes around;Welcome! still trembles on Liberty's bell!Thrones of the continent! isles of the sea!Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine;Welcome, once more, to the land of the free,Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine;Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine,"Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free;"Over your children their branches entwineThrones of the continents! isles of the sea!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Bright on the banners of lily and roseLo! the last sun of our century sets!Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,All but her friendships the nation forgets!All but her friends and their welcome forgets!These are around her; but where are her foes?Lo, while the sun of her century sets,Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swellWakes the wild echoes that slumber around!Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell;Welcome! the walls of her temple resound!Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound!Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell;Welcome! still whisper the echoes around;Welcome! still trembles on Liberty's bell!Thrones of the continent! isles of the sea!Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine;Welcome, once more, to the land of the free,Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine;Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine,"Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free;"Over your children their branches entwineThrones of the continents! isles of the sea!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Bright on the banners of lily and roseLo! the last sun of our century sets!Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,All but her friendships the nation forgets!All but her friends and their welcome forgets!These are around her; but where are her foes?Lo, while the sun of her century sets,Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!
Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swellWakes the wild echoes that slumber around!Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell;Welcome! the walls of her temple resound!Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound!Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell;Welcome! still whisper the echoes around;Welcome! still trembles on Liberty's bell!
Thrones of the continent! isles of the sea!Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine;Welcome, once more, to the land of the free,Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine;Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine,"Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free;"Over your children their branches entwineThrones of the continents! isles of the sea!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
"The National Ode" was read by its author, Bayard Taylor, whose deep voice and impressive delivery added appreciably to the majesty of the lines.
"The National Ode" was read by its author, Bayard Taylor, whose deep voice and impressive delivery added appreciably to the majesty of the lines.
THE NATIONAL ODE
INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876