Walking to-day on the Common,I heard a stranger sayTo a friend who was standing near him,"Do you know I am going away?"I had never seen their faces:May never see them again,But the words the stranger uttered,Stirred me with nameless pain.
For I knew some heart would miss him,Would ache at his "going away!"And the earth would seem all cheerless,For many and many a day.No matter how light my spirit,No matter how glad my heart,If I hear these two words uttered,The tear drops always start.
They are so sad and solemn,So full of a lonely sound:Like dead leaves rustling downward,And dropping upon the ground.Oh, I pity the naked branches,When the skies are dull and gray,And the last leaf whispers softly,"Good bye, I am going away."
In the dreary, dripping Autumn,The wings of the flying birds,As they soar away to the south land,Seem always to say these words.Where ever they may be uttered,They fall with a sob, and sigh;And heartaches follow the sentence,"I am going away, Good bye."
Oh God, in Thy blessed kingdomNo lips shall ever say,No ears shall ever hearkenTo the words "I am going away."For no soul ever weariesOf the dear, bright, angel land,And no saint ever wandersFrom the sunny, golden land.
Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,All tired out, with working long, and well,And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,These words have come to me, like angel fingers,Pressing the spirit eyelids down in sleep."Oh, let us not be weary in well doing,For in due season, we shall surely reap."
Oh, blessed promise! when I seem to hear it,Whispered by angel voices on the air,It breathes new life, and courage to my spirit,And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.And I can wait most patiently for harvest,And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,If I know surely, that my work availeth,And in God's season, I at last shall reap.
When mind and body were borne down completelyAnd I have thought my efforts were all vain,These words have come to me, so softly, sweetly,And whispered hope, and urged me on again.And though my labor seems all unavailing,And all my strivings fruitless, yet the LordDoth treasure up each little seed I scatter,And sometime, _sometime_, I shall reap reward.
Little by little the year grows old,The red leaves drop from the maple boughs;The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold,Down from the distant arctic seas.
Out of the skies the soft light dies,And the shadows of autumn come creeping over,And the bee and the bird are no longer heardIn grove or meadow, or field of clover.
Little by little our lives grow old,Our faces no longer are fair to see;For gray creeps into the curls of gold,And the red fades out of the cheeks, ah me!
And the birds that sang till our heart strings rangWith strains of hope, and joy, and pleasure,Have flown away; and our hearts todayHear only the weird wind's solemn measure.
Youth and summer, and beauty and bloom,Droop and die in the autumn weather,But up from the gloom of the winter's tomb,They shall rise, in God's good time, together.
Some day, when the golden gloryOf June is over the earth,And the birds are singing togetherIn a wild, mad strain of mirth;When the skies are as clear and cloudlessAs the skies of June can be,I would like to have the summonsSent down from God to me.
Some glowing, golden morningIn the heart of the summer time,As I stand in the perfect vigorAnd strength of my youth's glad prime;When my heart is light and happy,And the world seems bright to me,I would like to drop from this earth life,As a green leaf drops from the tree.
I would not wait for the furrows--For the faded eyes and hair;But pass out swift and sudden,Ere I grow heart-sick with care;I would break some morn in my singing--Or fall in my springing walkAs a full-blown flower will sometimesDrop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.
I think the leaf would soonerBe the first to break away,Than to hang alone in the orchardIn the bleak November day.And I think the fate of the flowerThat falls in the midst of bloomIs sweeter than if it lingeredTo die in the autumn's gloom.
And so, in my youth's glad morning,While the summer walks abroad,I would like to hear the summons,That must come, sometime, from God.I would pass from the earth's perfectionTo the endless June above;From the fullness of living and loving,To the noon of Immortal Love.
When this world's pleasures for my soul sufficed,Ere my heart's plummet sounded depths of pain,I called on Reason to control my brain,And scoffed at that old story of the Christ.
But when o'er burning wastes my feet had trod,And all my life was desolate with loss,With bleeding hands I clung about the cross,And cried aloud, "Man needs a suffering God!"
Now God be with the men who standIn Legislative halls, to-day.Those chosen princes of our land--May God be with them all, I say,And may His wisdom, guide, and shield them,For mighty is the trust we yield them.
Oh, men! who hold a people's fate,There in the hollow of your hand.Each word you utter, soon, or late,Shall leave its impress on our land,--Forth from the halls of legislation,Shall speed its way, through all the Nation.
Then may The Source of Truth, and Light,Be ever o'er you, ever near.And may He guide each word aright;May no false precept, greet the ear,No selfish love, for purse, or faction,Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.
And may no one, among these menLift to his lips, the damning glass,Let no man say, with truth, again,What _has been said_, in truth, alas,"Men drink, in halls of legislation--Why shouldn't we, of lower station!"
Oh, men! you see, you hear this beast,This fiend that pillages the earth.Whose work is death--whose hourly feast,Is noble souls, and minds of worth--You see--and if you will not chain him,Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him.
For God's sake, do not give him aid,Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me,It seems so strange that laws are madeTo crush all other crimes, while heWho bears down through Hell's gaping portalsThe countless souls, of rum wrecked mortals,
Is left to wander, to, and fro,In perfect freedom through the land.And those who ought to see, and know,Will lift no warning voice, or hand.Oh, men in halls of legislation.Rise to the combat, save the Nation!!
If I were sent to representA portion of a nationI would not chat, on this and that,In the halls of legislation.To show my power, I'd waste no hourIn aimless talk and bother,Nor fritter away a precious dayOn this and that and the other.
Whether the food a dog consumesWouldn't make a porker fatter,And about a thousand useless things,Of no import or matter;--Whether each day a man should prayFor our welfare, or shouldn't.Now I do not say men do this way;I merely say I wouldn't!
No! were I sent to representA state, or town, or county,I'd do some good, and all I could,To earn the people's bounty.Instead of a dog, or a fattening hog,I'd talk about men's drinking!And, with words of fire, I-would inspireThe stolid and unthinking.
And the time that I might idly waste,(I don't say men do waste it,)I'd spend in pleading for my cause,And, with tongue and pen, I'd haste itThrough all the land, till a mighty band,With laws and legislation,Should cleanse the stain and cut the chainThat binds our helpless nation.
And little need would there be then,When that bright sun had risen,Of asylum wings or building sites--Of county or state prison.The need is made by the liquor trade!Oh ye wise, sage law-makers,'Tis the friend you smile upon that makesOur madmen and law-breakers.
"Two-thirds," so reads our State Report,"Are made insane by liquor!"And so I say, I'd spend no dayIn idle chat and bickerIf I were sent to representA portion of a nation;But I'd plead for laws, until my causeWas won through legislation.
Let those slander fame who will--Call her cheat and blame her ways.It may all be true; and stillI shall give her words of praise.She has been my faithful friend,True and constant to the end.
Since I saw her hand first beckonFar above my lowly plain,I have had no need to reckonWhat my loss, or what my gain.She has made sweet blossoms blowIn whatever path I go;She hath made the dark ways light.Made the somber places bright;She has filled my empty cupFull to overflow with pleasure,And, though I may drink it up,She again refills the measure.
She has never promised aughtThat she has not more than brought.She has stood by me in danger,Made a friend of many a stranger--Made a welcome warm for meWhereso'er my lot may be;Thrown wide open many a doorThat was closed to me before;Given me every boon and blessing--Almost--that is worth possessing.
All my life, I never knewAny other friend so true.Youth and Love are fleeting things;Wealth has light and airy wings--Fame, once mine, will never flee,She has been a friend to me.Let who will condemn her ways,I shall always sing her praise.
The sweet young spring walks over the earth,It flushes and glows on moor and lea;The birds are singing in careless mirth--The brook flows cheerily on to the sea.And I know that the flowers are blooming now,Over my beautiful darling's brow;Blooming and blowing in perfume nowOver my poor lost darling's brow.
The breath of the passionate summer turnsThe green on the hills to a deeper dye.The wind from the southland blows and burns;The sun grows red in the brazen sky;And I know that the long, dark grasses waveOver my beautiful darling's grave;Rise and fall, and lift and waveOver my darling's narrow grave.
The days flow on and the summer diesAnd glorious autumn takes the crown,And toward the south the robin flies,And the grass on the hill grows dull and brown,And the leaves, all gold, and purple and redDrift over my precious darling's 'bed.Drift and flutter, all gold and red,Over my darling's lonely bed.
The winter comes with its chilling snowAnd wraps the world in a spotless shroudAnd cold from the north the wild wind blows,And the tempest rages fierce and loud.It shrieks, and sobs, and sighs, and weeps,O'er the mound where my darling sleeps;In pity it sobs, and sighs, and weepsOver the ground where my lost one sleeps.
He was so young, and fair, and brave,The pride of my bosom, my heart's best joy.And he lieth now in a drunkard's grave--My beautiful darling--my only boy.But down in my heart of hearts I knowHe has gone where the tempter never can goTo heaven his soul has gone, I know,Where the souls of his tempters never can go.
They charmed him into his licensed hell,They gave him rum, and his eye grew wild;And lower and lower, down he fell,Till they made a fiend of my precious child.May the curses of God fall on the soulWho gave my darling the poison bowl;Aye! curses dark and deep on the soulWho tempted my darling to lift the bowl.
Each day that I live I am persuaded anew,A maxim I long have believed in, is true.Each day I grow firmer in this, my belief,Strong drink causes half the world's trouble and grief.
Do I take up a paper, I read of a fight,Tom's fist in his eye deprived Jamie of sight;Both fellows were drinking before it began,And drink made a brute of a peaceable man.
Next, Jones kills his wife, such an awful affair!She was throttled, and pounded, and drawn by the hair;Cause--"Jones had been drinking--not in his sane mind."(Few men _are_ who tip up the bottle, I find.)
Then, a man is assaulted and dirked in the darkBy two "jolly boys" who are out on a "lark;"They have ever been peaceable boys--but, you see,They drank, and "were hardly themselves" on this spree.
Just over the street lives the man who is knownTo be honest and kind, when he lets drink alone;But whenever he quaffs from the full, flowing bowl,He is more like a beast than a man with a soul.
Next door lives the husband who frets at his wife;With his temper and spleen, she's no peace of her life.Well I know--do you? he muddles his headEvery night with hot toddy, ere going to bed.
"We temperance croakers harp on the same strain?"Well--the cause is one story again and again;Fights--tragedy--troubles--all stirred up by drink,Good reason we have to keep _harping_, I think.
We harp to these words; strong drink drives the knifeTo the heart of a friend, and deprives him of life;It turns sober boys into rowdies and knaves--It steals from the household to fill up the graves.
Who loves it the most first falls by its art;It first wins its victim--then strikes to the heart.But one thing is certain--it never was knownTo do a man harm if he let it alone.
There is nothing, I hold, in the way of workThat a human being may not achieveIf he does not falter, or shrink or shirk,And more than all, if he will _believe_.
Believe in himself and the power behindThat stands like an aid on a dual ground,With hope for the spirit and oil for the wound,Ready to strengthen the arm or mind.
When the motive is right and the will is strongThere are no limits to human power;For that great force back of us moves alongAnd takes us with it, in trial's hour.
And whatever the height you yearn to climb,Tho' it never was trod by the foot of man,And no matter how steep--I say you _can_,If you will be patient-and use your time.
The winds came out of the west one day,And hurried the clouds before them;And drove the shadows and mists away,And over the mountains bore them.And I wept, "Oh, wind, blow into my mind,Blow into my soul and heart,And scatter the clouds that hang like shrouds,And make the shadows depart."
The rain came out of the leaden skiesAnd beat on the earth's cold bosom.It said to the sleeping grass, "Arise,"And the young buds sprang in blossom.And I wept in pain, "Oh, blessed rain,Beat into my heart to-day;Thaw out the snows that are chilling it so,Till it blossoms in hope, I pray."
The sunshine fell on the bare-armed trees,In a wonderful sheen of glory;And the young leaves rustled and sang to the breeze,And whispered a love-fraught story.And "Sun, oh shine on this heart of mine,And woo it to life," I cried;But the wind, and sun, and rain, each oneThe coveted boon denied.
They stood at the garden gate.By the lifting of a lidShe might have read her fateIn a little thing he did.
He plucked a beautiful flower,Tore it away from its placeOn the side of the blooming bower,And held it against his face.
Drank in its beauty and bloom,In the midst of his idle talk;Then cast it down to the gloomAnd dust of the garden walk.
Ay, trod it under his foot,As it lay in his pathway there;Then spurned it away with his boot,Because it had ceased to be fair.
Ah! the maiden might have readThe doom of her young life then;But she looked in his eyes instead,And thought him the king of men.
She looked in his eyes and blushed,She hid in his strong arms' fold;And the tale of the flower, crushedAnd spurned, was once more told.
By the castle-gate my lady stands,Viewing broad acres and spreading lands.
Hill and valley and mead and plainAre all her own, with their wealth of grain.
In the richest of rich robes she is dressed,A jewel blazes upon her breast;
And her brow is decked with a diademThat glitters with many a precious gem.
But what to the Lady WendolineRich satin garments or jewels fine?
Or ripening harvests, or spreading lands--See! she is wringing her milk-white hands!
And her finger is stained with crimson dewWhere the ring with the diamond star cut through.
And a look of pain and wild despairRests on the face, so young and fair.
To-morrow will be her bridal day,And she will barter herself away
For added wealth and a titled name;'Tis the curse of her station, and whose the blame!
She loathes the man who will call her wife,And moans o'er her hapless, loveless life.
The joys of wooing she cannot know;My lord, her father, has willed it so.
She's a piece of merchandise, bought and soldFor name, position, and bags of gold.
But people must wed in their own degree,Though hearts may break in their agony.
Under the hill, in the castle's shade,At a cottage door sits an humble maid;
In her cheek the blushes come and goAs she stitches away on a robe like snow;
And she sings aloud in her happiness--In a joy she cannot hide or repress.
Close at her side her lover stands,Watching the nimble, sun-browned hands
As they draw the needle to and froThrough the robe as white as drift of snow.
Both hearts are singing a wordless lay,For the morrow will be their bridal day.
They have only their hands, their love, their health,In place of title, position, and wealth.
But which is the rich, and which the poor,The maid at the gate, or the maid in the door?
Here in my office I sit and writeHour on hour, and day on day,With no one to speak to from morn till night,Though I have a neighbor just over the way.Across the alley that yawns betweenA maiden sits sewing the whole day long;A face more lovely is seldom seenIn hall or castle or country throng.
Her curling tresses are golden brown;Her eyes, I think, are violet blue,Though her long, thick lashes are always down,Jealously hiding the orbs from view;Her neck is slender, and round, and white,And this way and that way her soft hair blows,As there in the window, from morn till night,She sits in her beauty, and sings and sews.
And I, in my office chair, lounge and dream,In an idle way, of a sweet "might be,"While the maid at her window sews her seam,With never a glance or a thought for me.Perhaps she is angry because I lookSo long and often across the way,Over the top of my ledger-book;But those stolen glances brighten the day.
And I am blameless of any wrong;--She the transgressor, by sitting thereAnd making my eyes turn oft and longTo a face so delicate, pure and fair.Work is forgotten; the page lies clean,Untouched by the pen, while hours go by.Oh, maid of the pensive air and mien!Give me one glance from your violet eye.
Drop your thimble or spool of threadDown in the alley, I pray, my sweet,Or the comb or ribbon from that fair head,That I may follow with nimble feet;For how can I tell you my heart has goneAcross the alley, and lingers there,Till I know your name, my beautiful one?How could I venture, and how could I dare?
Just one day longer I'll wait and dream,And then, if you grant me no other way,I shall write you a letter: "Maid of the seam,You have stolen my property; now give pay,Beautiful robber and charming thief!Give but a glance for the deed you've done."Thus shall I tell you my loss and grief,Over the alley, my beautiful one.
Every morning, as I walk downFrom my dreary lodgings, toward the town,I see at the window near the street,The face of a woman, fair, and sweet,With soft brown eyes, and chestnut hair,And red lips, warm with the kiss left there.And she lingers as long as she can seeThe man who walks, just ahead of me.
At night, when I come from my office, down town,There stands the woman, with eyes of brown,Smiling out through the window-blind,At the man who comes strolling on behind.This fellow and I resemble each other;At least, so I'm told, by one and another.(But I think I'm the handsomer, far, of the two.)I don't know him at all, save to "how d'ye do,"Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at workIn a dry goods store, as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer, of high renown;Have a snug bank account, and an office down town.Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite:(It has no better name, so I speak it outright.)There were symptoms before: but it's grown, I believe,Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve,When passing the little house, close by the street,I heard the patter of two tiny feet,And a figure in pink, fluttered down to the gate,And a sweet voice exclaimed, "Oh, Will, you are lateAnd, darling, I've watched at the window until--Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will."
I passed on my way, with an odd little smartBeneath my vest pocket, in what's called the heart.For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will;And that voice crying "darling" sent such a strange thrillThroughout my whole being. "How nice it would be,"Thought I, "if it were in reality meThat she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout."(It was envy made me use that word, no doubt,For he's a fine fellow, and handsome, ahem!)But then it's absurd that this rare little gemOf a woman, should be on the look-out for him,Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim,While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary, and bare,With no one to welcome me, no one to careIf I'm early, or late--no soft eyes of brownTo watch when I go to, or come from, the town.
This bleak, wretched bachelor life, is about,If I may be allowed the expression--played out.Somewhere there must be, in this wide world, I think,Another fair woman, who dresses in pink.And I know of a cottage for sale just below,And it has a French window, in front, and--heighoI wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be,Before coming home from the office I'll seeA nice little woman there, watching for me.
Once, when the summer lay on the hilltops,And the sunshine fell like a golden flame,Out from the city's dust and turmoilA gallant, fair-faced stranger came--Came to rest in our humble cottageTill the winds of autumn should blow again,To walk in the meadow and lie by the brooklet,And woo back the strength, that the town had slain.
I was young, with the foolish heart of a maidenThat had never been wooed, and the stranger blandAwoke that heart from its idle dreaming,And swept the strings with a master-hand.I remember the thrill, and the first wild tremor,That stirred its depths with a sweet surprise,When I glanced one day at the handsome stranger,And caught the gaze of his deep, dark eyes.
My cheek grew red with its tell-tale blushes,And the knitting dropped from my nerveless grasp;He stooped, and then, as he gracefully gave it,He held my hand in a loving clasp;We said no word, but he knew my secret,He read what lay in my maiden heart,No vain concealing was needed longerTo hide the tremor his voice would start.
We walked in the meadow and by the brooklet,My sun-browned hand in his snowy palm;He said my blushes would shame the roses,And my heart stood still in a blissful calm.He stroked my tresses, my raven ringlets,And twined them over his finger fair;My eyes' dark splendor was full of danger,He said, for Cupid was lurking there.
And once he held me close to his bosom,And pressed on my lips a loving kiss;Oh! how I tremble with shame and anger,Even now, as I think of this--But in that moment, I thought that heavenHad suddenly opened and drawn me in,And kissed with passion the lips, so near me,Nor dreamed I was staining my soul with sin.
But there came a letter one quiet eveningTo the man who was dearer to me than life--"A picture," he said, as he tore it open,"Look, sweet friend, at my fair young wife."A terrible anguish, a seething anger,Heaved my bosom and blanched my cheek,And he who stood there holding the letter,He watched me smiling, but did not speak.
I took the picture and gazed upon it--A sweet young creature with sunny hairAnd eyes of blue. "May the good Lord keep you,"I said aloud, "in his tender care--You who are wedded and bound foreverUnto this man," and I met his eyes--"This soulless villain, this shameless coward,Whose heart is blackened with acted lies."
My heart swelled full of a terrible hatred,And something of murder was burning there,But a better feeling stole in behind itAs I looked on the picture sweet and fair;I turned and left him, and never saw him--Never looked on his face again,And time has tempered my shame and sorrow,And soothed and quieted down my pain.
But I always tremble, in awful anger,That wears and worries my waning life,When I think how he clasped me close to his bosom,He--with a lawfully wedded wife.When I think how I answered his fond caresses,And clung to his neck in a trance of bliss,And the tears of a life time and all my sorrowCan never remove the stain of his kiss.
If all the ships I have at seaShould come a-sailing home to me,Ah, well! the harbour could not holdSo many sails as there would beIf all my ships came in from sea.
If half my ships came home from sea,And brought their precious freight to me,Ah, well! I should have wealth as greatAs any king who sits in state--So rich the treasures that would beIn half my ships now out at sea.
If just one ship I have at seaShould come a-sailing home to me,Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frownFor if the others all went down,Still rich and proud and glad I'd beIf that one ship came back to me.
If that one ship went down at sea,And all the others came to me,Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,With glory, honours, riches, gold,The poorest soul on earth I'd beIf that one ship came not to me.
O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free--Blow all my ships safe home to me!But if thou sendest some a-wrack,To never more come sailing back,Send any--all that skim the sea,But bring my love-ship home to me.
An idle rhyme of the summer time,Sweet, and solemn, and tender;Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays,Bright with the sunset's splendor.
Summer and beauty over the lands--Careless hours of pleasure;A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands--A change in the floating measure.
A deeper hue in the skies of blue,Winds from the tropics blowing;A softer grace on the fair moon's face,And the summer going, going.
The leaves drift down, the green grows brown,And tears with smiles are blended;A twilight hour and a treasured flower,--And now the poem is ended.
Written by Request of the Proprietors of Windsor Cheese Factory.
Alas! my muse is getting fast;She uses slang, 'tis very clear.Last eve, as she was flying past,She whispered "Cheese it!" in my ear.
I chided her with words like these:"You slangy jade, avaunt! go by!"Again she said: "You'd better cheese--The fact-ory you can't deny."
I struck her with my pen and cried,"Away! you fill my breast with woeAnd bitter shame." She only sighed,"Oh, whey-er, whey-er shall I go?"
"You talk more like a pilot man"Said I, "than like a poet's muse."Said she, "I'll seek the vat-I-can,But I will fly from such abuse:"
Quoth I, "What's turned your silly head?I was but jesting, anyway.""My blood is curdling now," she said."But if you press it, I will stay."
Some sage advise I gave her then,And boxed her ears, the wicked tease,And I told her she could cut it;When I sat down to sing of cheese.
Cheese, lively subject of a poet's dream,My thoughts go skipping through the tender theme.Venerable topic, old as the hills, I sing;Yet ever new, and green, like love, and spring.
Cheese, savory subject! let me weave a songOut of my merits, musical and strong.Others may sing of green grass, if they please,I sing of it in the useful form of cheese.
The world keeps moving. Now, it's upside down.Time was, when pretty maidens of each townMade all the cheese; and while they pressed the curds,Their lovers pressed their suits, in earnest words.
Now men make cheese, and press it, and their wivesAnd daughters worry and torment their lives,By pressing their suits, new spring suits, the while,And asking for money, to dress out in style.
Strong-minded sisters, what more can you ask?Man takes, himself, the burden of your task,And you enjoy the proceeds, and your "rights,"For which each woman of the period fights.
Hail! Windsorburgh; may your cheese prove the limbYou '11 walk forth on, in sight of all the world.And may the fame of Limburg yet grow dim,When once your banner is unfurled.
Hail! Windsor enterprise, pluck, pride, ambitionIgnoring scoffs, defying competition.Providence smiles upon your latest plan,And soaks the grass, to help you all it can.
Three cheers for Windsor, factory and all,Upon its homes may choicest blessings fall.And so my song is ended; if you please,Will Mr. Sherman--E. P.--pass the cheese?
Think of it, think of it over the waterThousands of men to-day march on to death,Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter--How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.
How in the shadows, perchance, of this even,Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat,Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven--Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.
Think of the homes that these battles are leavingDestitute, desolate, dreary and dumb.Think of the fond, patient, hearts that are grieving,Breaking for loved ones, who never will come.
Ah! we so recently felt this same anguish,Women--Oh! women who suffer and pray,We well can weep with you, who weep and languish,We have borne all you are bearing to-day.
"God speed the right," we cry, "God be with Prussia,"Yet to the mourners of soldiers who fall,Whether their tears flow in France, or in Russia,Their dead are their dead, and we pity them all.
Think of it, think of it, hearts that are breaking,Sorrowing, suffering, over the sea.Think of the eyes that are blinded and achingWith watching for those whom they never will see.
Gather them out of the valley--Bring them from moorland and hill,And cast them in wreaths and in garlands.On the city so silent and still--So voiceless, so silent, and still;Where neighbor speaks never to neighbor,Where the song of the bird, and the brown bee is heard,But never the harsh sounds of labor.
Bring them from woodland and meadow--As fresh, and as fair, as can be.Bring them, all kinds, and all colors.That grow upon upland and lea--That spring in wild grace on the lea.And rifle the green earth's warm bosomOf each flower, and blow, till "God's acre" shall glowAnd bloom, like a garden in blossom.
Bring them from vase, and from hot-house,And strew them with bountiful hand.There is nothing too rare for the soldier,Who laid down his life for his land--Who laid down _all things_ for his land;And turned to the duty before him,And how now can we prove, our thanks and our loveBut by casting these May blossoms o'er him.
We know they will soon fade, and wither--We know they will soon droop, and die;But one time, I read, how an angelCame down from the mansions on high--In the night, from God's kingdom on high--Came down where a poor faded flowerLay crushed by rude feet, in the dust of the street,And he carried it up to God's bower;
And laid it before the Good Master,Who kissed it, and passed it to Christ,On the throne at His side; and _He_ kissed it,And the touch of those kisses sufficed--The caress of the God-head sufficed--And it bloomed out in wonderful splendor,A thing of delight, and most fair in God's sight--'Tis a fable, I know; but so tender;
So sweet that I like to believe it--And I have been thinking, to-day,That mayhap these soldiers, now angels,Will come, when these wreathes fade away--When they wither, and shrivel away--And will bear the crushed things up to heaven,And God, and His Son will kiss them, each one,And new beauty, and bloom will be given.
And odd fancy, perhaps, yet dispute it.And prove it untrue if you can.There are strange, subtle ways, in God's workingsNow veiled from the knowledge of man,Shut out from the vision of man.--By a dark veil of deep, mortal blindness;But when God deems it right, He will give us our sight,And remove the thick veil, in His kindness;
And when we have entered His kingdom,And all his strange ways understand,Who knows but these very same flowers,We shall find there abloom, in His land,All fresh, and all fair, in His land;And these soldiers, who went on before us,As we wander and stray, through God's gardens, shall say:"These are the wreathes you cast o'er us."
Then, strew ye the best, and the brightestOf buds, and of blossoms full blown,Over the graves, of the loved ones--Over those labeled "Unknown!"Oh! the pathos of that word, "Unknown!"Bring hither the brightest, and rarest!We reck not, if the clay, wore the blue garb, or gray!We will give them the best, and the fairest.
For somebody mourned for the "missing,"And wept for them hot, scalding tears,And hoped against hope, for their coming;And watched, and waited, months and years,Such long, and such desolate years!But the hearts are _so_ patient, that love them.And some now watch and weep, for the soldiers who sleepWith the slab labeled "Unknown" above them.
Then gather from meadow, and woodland,From garden, and hot-house, and vase,The brightest and choicest of blossoms,And scatter them here in this place;This holy and hallowed place--This city of rest, not of labor,Where only the bird, and th' brown bee is heard,And neighbor, speaks never to neighbor.
God bless the hero of my song!Six years the chieftain of our State!We've held him, in our hearts, so long,And proved him good, and true, and great.That now, we could not let him go,Even if he would have it so.
I hear the praises of his nameFrom east and west, and north and south,His foes are silenced from sheer shame:His deeds have silenced Slander's mouth,And all the little imps of spiteHe's crushed beneath the heel of Right.
He dropped an arm one bloody day,In beating down the walls of wrong,But no strength went with it away;His other grew full thrice as strong.Few men, with their two hands, have doneAs noble deeds as he with one.
His soul speaks through his eye of blue,And all men know him one to trust,Because his heart is kind and true,And all his actions prove him just.I speak for thousands when I cry,"The people's favorite for aye!"
May God be with him all his days--With him and all he holds most dear;And if my little song of praiseShould chance to fall upon his ear,May he accept the offering,And know that from my heart I sing.
After the battles are over,And the war drums cease to beat,And no more is heard on the hillsideThe sound of hurrying feet,Full many a noble action,That was done in the days of strife,By the soldier is half forgotten,In the peaceful walks of life.
Just as the tangled grasses,In summer's warmth and light,Grow over the graves of the fallenAnd hide them away from sight,So many an act of valor,And many a deed sublime,Fades from the mind of the soldier,O'ergrown by the grass of time.
Not so should they be rewarded,Those noble deeds of old;They should live forever and ever,When the heroes' hearts are cold.Then rally, ye brave old comrades,Old veterans, re-unite!Up root time's tangled grasses--Live over the march, and the fight.
Let Grant come up from the White House,And clasp each brother's hand,First chieftain of the army,Last chieftain of the land.Let him rest from a nation's burdens,And go, in thought, with his men,Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh,And save the day again.
This silent hero of battles,Knew no such word as _defeat_.It was left for the rebels learning.Along with the word retreat.He was not given to _talking_,But he found that guns would preachIn a way that was more convincingThan fine and flowery speech.
Three cheers for the grave commanderOf the grand old Tennessee!Who won the first great battle--Gained the first great victory.His motto was always "Conquer,""Success" was his countersign,And "though it took all summer,"He kept fighting upon "that line."
Let Sherman, the stern old General,Respond to the reveille,Let him march with his boys through Georgia,From "Atlanta down to the sea."Oh, that grand old tramp to Savannah!Three hundred miles to the coast!It will live in the heart of the Nation,Forever its pride and boast.
As Sheridan went to the battle.When a score of miles away,He has come to the feast and banquet.By the iron horse to-day.Its space is not much swifterThan the pace of that famous steedThat bore him down to the contestAnd saved the day by his speed.
(When the above verse, which had been improvised on half of a Programme by Miss Wheeler, during the progress of the exercises, was read, it created wild enthusiasm, and led the loud calls for Sheridan, who came to the front of the platform, where he was received with loud applause and bowed his acknowledgments.)
Then go over the ground to-day, boys,Tread each remembered spot.It will be a gleesome journey,On the swift-shod feet of thought;You can fight a bloodless battle,You can skirmish along the route,But it's not worthwhile to forage,There are rations enough without.
Don't start if you hear the cannon;It is not the sound of doom,It does not call to the contest--To the battle's smoke and gloom."Let us have Peace," was spoken.And lo! peace ruled again;And now the nation is shouting,Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."
Oh, boys, who besieged old Vicksburg,Can time e'er wash awayThe triumph of her surrender,Nine years ago to-day?Can you ever forget the moment,When you saw that flag of white,That told how the grim old cityHad fallen in her might?
Ah, 'twas a bold, brave army,When the boys with a right good will,Went gayly marching and singingTo the fight at Champion Hill.They met with a warm reception,But the soul of "Old John Brown"Was abroad on that field of battle,And our flag did NOT go down.
Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain,Of Corinth and Donelson,Of Kenesaw and Atlanta,And tell how the day was won!Hush! bow the head for a moment--There are those who cannot come.No bugle call can arouse them--No sound of fife, or drum.
McPherson fell in the battle,When its waves were surging high.Brave Ransom sank by the wayside;'Twas a lonely death to die.They walk God's fair, green meadows,They dwell in a land of bliss,Yet I think their spirits are with usIn such an hour as this.
Oh, boys who died for the country,Oh, dear and sainted dead!What can we say about youThat has not once been said?Whether you fell in the contest,Struck down by shot and shell,Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness,Or starved in the prison cell--
We know that you died for Freedom,To save our land from shame,To rescue a periled Nation,And we give you deathless fame.'Twas the cause of Truth and JusticeThat you fought and perished for,And we say it, oh, so gently,"Our boys who died in the war."
Saviours of our Republic,Heroes who wore the blue,We owe the peace that surrounds us--And our Nation's strength, to you.We owe it to you that our banner,The fairest flag in the worldIs to-day unstained, unsullied,On the summer air unfurled.
We look on its stripes and spangles,And our hearts are filled the whileWith love for the brave commanders,And the boys of the rank and file.The grandest deeds of valor,Were never written out,The noblest acts of virtue,The world knows nothing about.
And many a private soldier,Who walks his humble way,With no sounding name or title,Unknown to the world to-day,In the eyes of God is a hero;All such he will reward,No deed however secret,Is hidden from the Lord.
Brave men of a mighty army,We extend you friendships hand!I speak for the "Loyal Women,"Those pillars of our land.We wish you a hearty welcome,We are proud that you gather hereTo talk of old times togetherOn this brightest day in the year.
And if peace, whose snow-white pinions,Brood over our land to-day,Should ever again go from us,(God grant she may ever stay).Should our Nation call in her perilFor "Six hundred thousand more,"The loyal women would hear her,And send you out as before.
We would bring out the treasured knapsack.We would take the sword from the wall,And hushing our own heart's pleadings,Hear only the country's call.For next to our God, is our Nation:And we cherish the honored name,Of the bravest of all brave armiesWho fought for that Nation's fame.
When night hung low and dew fell damp,There fell athwart the shadowsThe gleaming watchfires of the camp,Like glow-worms on the meadows.The sentinel his measured beatWith measured tread was keeping,While like bronze statues at his feetLay tired soldiers, sleeping.
On some worn faces of the menThere crept a homesick yearning,Which made it almost seem again,The child-look was returning.While on full many a youthful brow,Till now to care a stranger,The premature grave lines told howThey had grown old through danger.
One, in his slumber, laughed with joy,The laughing echoes mocked him,He thought beside his baby boyHe sat and gaily rocked him.O pitying angels! thou wert kindTo end this brief elysian,He found what he no more could findSave in a dreamer's vision.
The clear note of a mocking bird--That star of sound--came fallingDown thro' the night; one, wakeful, heardAnd answered to the calling,And then upon the ear there brokeThat sweet, pathetic measure,That song that wakes--as then it woke,Such mingled pain and pleasure.
One voice at first, and then the soundPulsed like a great bell's swinging,"Tenting to-night on the old camp ground,"The whole roused camp was singing.The sense of warfare's discontentGave place to warfare's glory;Right merrily the swift hours wentWith song, and jest, and story.
They sang the song of Old John Brown,Whose march goes on forever;It made them thirsty for renown,It fired them with endeavor.So much of that great heart lives still,So much of that great spirit--His very name shoots like a thrillThrough all men when they hear it.
They found in tales of march and fightNew courage as they listened,And while they watched the weird camp-light,And while the still stars glistened,Like some stern comrade's voice, there brokeAnd swept from hill to valley'Til all the sleeping echoes woke,--The bugle's call to rally!
"To arms! to arms! the foe is near!"Ah, brave hearts were ye equalTo hearing through without one fearThe whole tale's bloody sequel?The laurel wreath, the victor's cry,These are not all of glory;The gaping wound, the glazing eye,They, too, are in the story.
And when again their tents were spread,And by campfires they slumbered,The missing faces of the deadThe living ones outnumbered.And yet, their memories animateThe hearts that still survive them,And holy seems the task, and great,For one hour to revive them.
Columbia, fair queen in your glory!Columbia, the pride of the earth!We crown you with song-wreath and story;We honor the day of your birth!
The wrath of a king and his minionsYou braved, to be free, on that day;And the eagle sailed up on strong pinions,And frightened the lion at bay.
Since the chains and the shackles are broken.And citizens now replace slaves,Since the hearts of your heroes have spokenHow dear they held freedom--by graves.
Your beautiful banner is blotlessAs it floats to the breezes unfurled,And but for one blemish, all spotlessIs the record you show to the world.
Like a scar on the features of beauty,Lies Utah, sin-cursed, in the west.Columbia! Columbia! your dutyIs to wipe out that stain with the rest!
Not only in freedom, and science,And letters, should you lead the earth;But let the earth learn your relianceIn honor and true moral worth.When Liberty's torch shall be lighted,Let her brightest most far-reaching raysDiscover no wrong that's unrighted--Go challenge the jealous world's gaze!
Columbia, your star is ascending!Columbia, all lands own your sway!May your reign be as proud and unendingAs your glory is brilliant to-day.