THE WEDDING-GOWN

FOOTNOTE:[18]By permission of D. Appleton & Co., publishers.

[18]By permission of D. Appleton & Co., publishers.

"Bring it from the oaken press; full fifty years agoI sewed those seams, my heart all full of youth and hope and Joe—Joe, whose wife I was to be—my lover, strong and brown,Captain of the stanchest craft that sailed from Gloucester town.It seems a worthless thing to hold so carefully in store,This poor, old, faded bridal dress, which no bride ever wore;Cut in the curious style of half a century ago,With scanty skirt and 'broidered bands—my own hands shaped it so.Niece Hester, spread it on my bed—my eyes grow blind with tears;I touch its limp and yellow folds, and lo! the long dead yearsCome trooping back like churchyard ghosts. This was my wedding-gown—'Twas made the year the equinox brought woe to Gloucester town."Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him—The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim,And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light;The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that night.We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry;Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by.High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red,From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead.'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way—I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day.I hung my head, he kissed me—oh, sweetest hour of life!A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife."But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay—The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away,Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray ranks,And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks.And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep,While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep,And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown.His schoonerNanwas swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town;He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe.She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her go."The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seamsOf this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreamsOf future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flowerI fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour.In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and died,And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide.The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea—'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me;And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown,The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!'"The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn gales;With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound sailsFrom Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers dread,From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead.Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane,With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain—The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous shocks,The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox;The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me,And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea."I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair;I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair,No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear,For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year;And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brownFor never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town."'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress,My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press.My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow,Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe;And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed,I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest."She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray,And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay.It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee,The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea.A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried,"They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide—Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown—It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town!And look! hisNanleads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe!He beckons from her shining deck—haste, friends, for I must go.The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips;All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged ships.This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride.Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand—here—take it!"Then she died.

"Bring it from the oaken press; full fifty years ago

I sewed those seams, my heart all full of youth and hope and Joe—

Joe, whose wife I was to be—my lover, strong and brown,

Captain of the stanchest craft that sailed from Gloucester town.

It seems a worthless thing to hold so carefully in store,

This poor, old, faded bridal dress, which no bride ever wore;

Cut in the curious style of half a century ago,

With scanty skirt and 'broidered bands—my own hands shaped it so.

Niece Hester, spread it on my bed—my eyes grow blind with tears;

I touch its limp and yellow folds, and lo! the long dead years

Come trooping back like churchyard ghosts. This was my wedding-gown—

'Twas made the year the equinox brought woe to Gloucester town.

"Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him—The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim,And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light;The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that night.We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry;Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by.High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red,From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead.'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way—I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day.I hung my head, he kissed me—oh, sweetest hour of life!A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife.

"Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him—

The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim,

And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light;

The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that night.

We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry;

Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by.

High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red,

From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead.

'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way—

I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day.

I hung my head, he kissed me—oh, sweetest hour of life!

A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife.

"But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay—The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away,Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray ranks,And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks.And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep,While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep,And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown.His schoonerNanwas swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town;He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe.She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her go.

"But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay—

The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away,

Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray ranks,

And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks.

And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep,

While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep,

And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown.

His schoonerNanwas swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town;

He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe.

She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her go.

"The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seamsOf this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreamsOf future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flowerI fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour.In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and died,And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide.The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea—'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me;And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown,The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!'

"The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seams

Of this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreams

Of future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flower

I fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour.

In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and died,

And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide.

The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea—

'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me;

And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown,

The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!'

"The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn gales;With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound sailsFrom Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers dread,From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead.Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane,With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain—The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous shocks,The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox;The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me,And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea.

"The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn gales;

With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound sails

From Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers dread,

From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead.

Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane,

With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain—

The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous shocks,

The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox;

The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me,

And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea.

"I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair;I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair,No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear,For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year;And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brownFor never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town.

"I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair;

I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair,

No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear,

For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year;

And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brown

For never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town.

"'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress,My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press.My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow,Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe;And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed,I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest."

"'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress,

My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press.

My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow,

Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe;

And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed,

I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest."

She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray,And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay.It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee,The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea.A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried,"They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide—Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown—It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town!And look! hisNanleads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe!He beckons from her shining deck—haste, friends, for I must go.The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips;All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged ships.This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride.Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand—here—take it!"Then she died.

She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray,

And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay.

It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee,

The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea.

A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried,

"They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide—

Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown—

It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town!

And look! hisNanleads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe!

He beckons from her shining deck—haste, friends, for I must go.

The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips;

All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged ships.

This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride.

Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand—here—take it!"Then she died.

The icy gale that hurled the snowAgainst the window pane,And rattled the sash with a merry clashUsed not its strength in vain;For now and then a wee flake siftedThrough the loose ill-fitting frame,By the warmer breezes each was liftedAll melting as they came.The baby stood with shining eyes,Her hands upon the sill;She watched each flake and the course 'twould take,And her voice was never still.'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"And, "Where's all the beauty gone?What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow,When it gets in where it's warm?"I smiled that day, but seldom nowDoes the thought of smiling come;A phantom shape, a bow of crape,And my sweet little child went home.O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?And whither's the beauty flown?Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'On my cheek as I face the storm?"Again the wild wind hurls the snowAgainst the frosted paneAnd a few flakes dash through the rattling sash,While I hear those words again.The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hillWhere a little mound is seen,And they cover it softly and tenderlyAs the grass with its cloak of green.

The icy gale that hurled the snow

Against the window pane,

And rattled the sash with a merry clash

Used not its strength in vain;

For now and then a wee flake sifted

Through the loose ill-fitting frame,

By the warmer breezes each was lifted

All melting as they came.

The baby stood with shining eyes,Her hands upon the sill;She watched each flake and the course 'twould take,And her voice was never still.'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"And, "Where's all the beauty gone?What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow,When it gets in where it's warm?"

The baby stood with shining eyes,

Her hands upon the sill;

She watched each flake and the course 'twould take,

And her voice was never still.

'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"

And, "Where's all the beauty gone?

What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow,

When it gets in where it's warm?"

I smiled that day, but seldom nowDoes the thought of smiling come;A phantom shape, a bow of crape,And my sweet little child went home.O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?And whither's the beauty flown?Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'On my cheek as I face the storm?"

I smiled that day, but seldom now

Does the thought of smiling come;

A phantom shape, a bow of crape,

And my sweet little child went home.

O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?

And whither's the beauty flown?

Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'

On my cheek as I face the storm?"

Again the wild wind hurls the snowAgainst the frosted paneAnd a few flakes dash through the rattling sash,While I hear those words again.The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hillWhere a little mound is seen,And they cover it softly and tenderlyAs the grass with its cloak of green.

Again the wild wind hurls the snow

Against the frosted pane

And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash,

While I hear those words again.

The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill

Where a little mound is seen,

And they cover it softly and tenderly

As the grass with its cloak of green.

FOOTNOTE:[19]By permission of the author.

[19]By permission of the author.

In the green solitudesOf the deep, shady woodsThy lot is kindly cast, and life to theeIs like a gust of rarest minstrelsy.The winds of May and JuneHum many a tender tune,Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place,Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face.About thee float and glowRare insects, hovering low,And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass,Plashing their odors on thee as they pass.The sheen of brilliant wingsSongs of shy, flitting things,The low, mysterious melodies that thrillThrough every summer wood, thy sweet life fill.Oh bloom! all joy is thine,All loves around thee shine,The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee,Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly.Oh bloom of purest glory,Flower of love's gentlest story,Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair,Forever send thy sweetness down the air!I'll put thee in my song,With all thy joys along,At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow,And frozen ones may gently slip their snow.

In the green solitudesOf the deep, shady woodsThy lot is kindly cast, and life to theeIs like a gust of rarest minstrelsy.

In the green solitudes

Of the deep, shady woods

Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee

Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy.

The winds of May and JuneHum many a tender tune,Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place,Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face.

The winds of May and June

Hum many a tender tune,

Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place,

Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face.

About thee float and glowRare insects, hovering low,And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass,Plashing their odors on thee as they pass.

About thee float and glow

Rare insects, hovering low,

And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass,

Plashing their odors on thee as they pass.

The sheen of brilliant wingsSongs of shy, flitting things,The low, mysterious melodies that thrillThrough every summer wood, thy sweet life fill.

The sheen of brilliant wings

Songs of shy, flitting things,

The low, mysterious melodies that thrill

Through every summer wood, thy sweet life fill.

Oh bloom! all joy is thine,All loves around thee shine,The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee,Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly.

Oh bloom! all joy is thine,

All loves around thee shine,

The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee,

Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly.

Oh bloom of purest glory,Flower of love's gentlest story,Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair,Forever send thy sweetness down the air!

Oh bloom of purest glory,

Flower of love's gentlest story,

Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair,

Forever send thy sweetness down the air!

I'll put thee in my song,With all thy joys along,At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow,And frozen ones may gently slip their snow.

I'll put thee in my song,

With all thy joys along,

At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow,

And frozen ones may gently slip their snow.

FOOTNOTE:[20]Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works.

[20]Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works.

Zoroaster a young Persian and Nehushta a Hebrew maiden were betrothed lovers; an unfortunate misunderstanding separated them and, in a fit of jealousy, Nehushta became a wife of Darius, king of the Persians. Zoroaster entered the priesthood and later became the high priest of the temple in the king's palace. In a subsequent interview with the high priest, Nehushta discovers that her jealousy was groundless, but it was now too late to correct her unhappy mistake. In the meantime Nehushta had incurred the jealousy and hatred of another wife of Darius, who, in the absence of the king, planned the massacre of the priests of the temple and Nehushta and her servants.

Four days after the king's departure, Nehushta was wandering in the gardens as the sun was going down. Just then a strange sound echoed far off among the hills, an unearthly cry that rang high in the air and struck the dark crags and doubled in the echo and died away in short, faint pulsations of sound. She started slightly, she had never heard such a sound before. Again that strange cry rang out and echoed and died away. Her slave women gathered about her.

"What is it?" asked Nehushta.

"The war cry of the children of Anak is like that," said a little Syrian maid.

Nehushta pushed the slaves aside and fled towards the palace. The truth had flashed across her. Some armed force was collecting on the hills to descend upon the palace. But onethought filled her mind. She must find Zoroaster and warn him.

Through the garden she ran, and up the broad steps to the portico. Slaves were moving about under the colonnade, lighting the great torches that burned there all night. They had not heard the strange cries from the hills. As she entered the great hall, she heard the cry again.

"Go, my little maid, in one direction and I will go in another, and search out Zoroaster, the high priest, and bring him."

The girl turned and ran through the halls, and Nehushta went another way upon her search. Something within her told her that she was in great danger, and the calm she had seen in the palace could not allay the terror of that cry she had heard three times from the hills. Just then the Syrian maid came running in and fell breathless at Nehushta's feet.

"Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us—they cover the hills—they are closing every entrance—the people in the lower palace are all slain."

"Where is Zoroaster?"

"He is in the temple with the priests—by this time he is surely slain—he could know of nothing going on—fly, fly!"

"On which side are they coming?"

"From the hills, from the hills they are descending in thousands."

"Go you all to the farther window, leap down upon the balcony—it is scarce a man's height,—follow it to the end past the corner where it joins the main wall of the garden. Run along upon the wall till you find a place where you can descend. Through the gardens you can easily reach the road. Fly, and save yourselves in the darkness." But before she had half finished, the last of the slave women, mad with terror, disappeared.

"Why do you not go with the rest, my little maid?" asked Nehushta.

"I have eaten thy bread, shall I leave thee in the hour of death?"

"Go, child, I have seen thy devotion; thou must not perish."

But the Syrian leaped to her feet as she answered:

"I am a bondwoman, but I am a daughter of Israel, even as thou art. Though all the others leave thee, I will not. It may be I can help thee."

"Thou art a brave child; I must go to Zoroaster; stay thou here, hide thyself among the curtains, escape by the window if any one come to harm thee." She turned and went rapidly out.

But the maid grasped the knife in her girdle, and stole upon her mistress's steps. The din rose louder every moment—the shrieks of wounded women with the moaning of wounded men, the clash of swords and arms, and a quick, loud rattle, as half a dozen arrows struck the wall together.

Onward flew Nehushta till she reached the temple door; then she listened. Faintly through the thick walls she could hear the sound of the evening chant. The priests were all within with Zoroaster, unconscious of their danger. Nehushta tried the door. The great bronze gates were locked, and though she pushed with her whole strength, they would not move a hair's breadth.

"Press the nail nearest the middle," said a small voice. Nehushta started. It was the little Syrian slave. She put her hand upon the round head of the nail and pressed. The door opened, turning noiselessly upon its hinges. The seventy priests, in even rank, stood round. Solemnly the chant rose round the sacred fire upon the black stone altar. Zoroaster stood before it, his hands lifted in prayer. But Nehushta with a sudden cry broke their melody.

"Zoroaster—fly—there is yet time! The enemy are come in thousands; they are in the palace. There is barely time!"

The high priest turned calmly, his face unmoved, although the priests ceased their chanting and gathered about theirchief in fear. As their voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without as though the ocean were beating at the gates.

"Go thou and save thyself," said Zoroaster. "I will not go. If it be the will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. Go thou quickly and save thyself while there is yet time."

But Nehushta took his hand in hers, and gazed into his calm eyes.

"Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than live with any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will not leave thee!"

"There is no more time! There is no more time! Ye are all dead men! Behold, they are breaking down the doors!"

As she spoke the noise of some heavy mass striking against the bronze gates echoed like thunder through the temple, and at each blow a chorus of hideous yells rose, wild and long drawn out.

"Can none of you save Zoroaster?" cried Nehushta.

But Zoroaster gently said:

"Ye cannot save me, for my hour is come; we must die like men, and like priests of the Lord before His altar;" and, raising one hand to heaven, he chanted:

"Praise we the all-wise GodWho hath made and created the years and the ages;Praise Him who rides on death,In whose hand are all power and honor and glory;Who made the day of life,That should rise up and lighten the shadow of death."

"Praise we the all-wise God

Who hath made and created the years and the ages;

Praise Him who rides on death,

In whose hand are all power and honor and glory;

Who made the day of life,

That should rise up and lighten the shadow of death."

With a crash the great bronze doors gave way, and fell clanging in. In an instant the temple was filled with a swarm of hideous men. Their swords gleamed aloft as they passed forward, and their yells rent the roof. They had hoped for treasure—they saw but a handful of white-robed, unarmed men. Their rage knew no bounds, and their screams rosemore piercing than ever, as they surrounded the doomed band, and dyed their blades in the blood that flowed red over the white vestures.

The priests struggled like brave men, but the foe were a hundred to one. A sharp blade fell swiftly and the brave little slave fell shrieking to the floor.

Nehushta's eyes met the high priest's triumphant gaze and her hands clasped his wildly.

"Oh, Zoroaster, my beloved, my beloved! Say not any more that I am unfaithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I shall be with you beyond the stars for ever!"

"Beyond the stars and for ever!" he cried; "in the light of the glory of God most high!"

The keen sword flashed and severed Nehushta's neck and found its sheath in her lover's heart; and they fell down dead together.

Our father's God! from out whose handThe centuries fall like grains of sand,We meet to-day, united, freeAnd loyal to our land and Thee,To thank Thee for the era done,And trust Thee for the opening one.Here 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.Be with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streetsUnveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.Thou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath the Western skies fulfillThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.For 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!Oh, 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 mold,Let the new cycle shame the old!

Our father's God! from out whose hand

The 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.

Here 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.

Here where of old, by Thy design,

The fathers spake that word of Thine

Whose echo is the glad refrain

Of rended bolt and falling chain,

To grace our festal time, from all

The zones of earth, our guests we call.

Be with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streetsUnveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.

Be with us while the New World greets

The Old World thronging all its streets

Unveiling all the triumphs won

By art or toil beneath the sun;

And unto common good ordain

This rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath the Western skies fulfillThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.

Thou, who hast here in concord furled

The war flags of a gathered world,

Beneath the Western skies fulfill

The Orient's mission of good-will,

And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,

Send back its Argonauts of peace.

For 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!

For art and labor met in truce,

For beauty made the bride of use,

We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave

The austere virtues strong to save,

The honor proof to place or gold,

The manhood never bought nor sold!

Oh, 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 mold,Let the new cycle shame the old!

Oh, make Thou us, through centuries long,

In peace secure, in justice strong;

Around our gift of freedom draw

The safeguards of Thy righteous law;

And, cast in some diviner mold,

Let the new cycle shame the old!

FOOTNOTE:[21]By permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

[21]By permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wings,In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings,

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,—

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

FOOTNOTE:[22]Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin and Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

[22]Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin and Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

Sunset and evening starAnd one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the barWhen I put out to sea.But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foamWhen that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.Twilight and evening bellAnd after that the dark;And may there be no sadness of farewellWhen I embark;For though from out our bourne of time and placeThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.

Sunset and evening starAnd one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the barWhen I put out to sea.

Sunset and evening star

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foamWhen that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bellAnd after that the dark;And may there be no sadness of farewellWhen I embark;

Twilight and evening bell

And after that the dark;

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of time and placeThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.

For though from out our bourne of time and place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,On thee, from the hill top looking down;And the heifer that lows on the upland farm,Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton, tolling the bell at noon,Dreams not that great NapoleonStops his horse and lists with delight,As his files sweep round yon distant height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent;All are needed by each one—Nothing is fair or good alone.I caught the linnet's note from heaven,Singing at dawn, on the alder bough;I brought him home in his nest at even:He sings the song; but it pleases not now;For I did not bring home the river and sky;He sang to my ear—they sing to my eye.The delicate shell lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their emerald gave;And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,And fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor, unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shore,With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproarNor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair;Their concord is beyond compare.

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,

On thee, from the hill top looking down;

And the heifer that lows on the upland farm,

Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;

The sexton, tolling the bell at noon,

Dreams not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse and lists with delight,

As his files sweep round yon distant height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent;

All are needed by each one—

Nothing is fair or good alone.

I caught the linnet's note from heaven,Singing at dawn, on the alder bough;I brought him home in his nest at even:He sings the song; but it pleases not now;For I did not bring home the river and sky;He sang to my ear—they sing to my eye.

I caught the linnet's note from heaven,

Singing at dawn, on the alder bough;

I brought him home in his nest at even:

He sings the song; but it pleases not now;

For I did not bring home the river and sky;

He sang to my ear—they sing to my eye.

The delicate shell lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their emerald gave;And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,And fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor, unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shore,With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproarNor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair;Their concord is beyond compare.

The delicate shell lay on the shore;

The bubbles of the latest wave

Fresh pearls to their emerald gave;

And the bellowing of the savage sea

Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam,

And fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore,

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar

Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair;

Their concord is beyond compare.

FOOTNOTE:[23]Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers.

[23]Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers.

It is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down.How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal,Fling the joy from town to town!Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime.Loud and long, that all may hear.Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time!Let us kneel!God's own voice is in that peal,And this spot is holy ground.Lord, forgive us! What are we,That our eyes this glory see,That our ears have heard the sound!For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake he has spoken;He has smitten with his thunderThe iron walls asunder,And the gates of brass are broken!Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the seaHe has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;"He hath triumphed gloriously!"Did we dareIn our agony of prayer,Ask for more than He has done?When was ever his right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun!How they pale,Ancient myth and song and tale,In this wonder of our days,When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous law,And the wrath of man is praise!Blotted out!All within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin!It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth.It shall bid the sad rejoice,It shall give the dumb a voice,It shall belt with joy the earth!Ring and swing,Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chainsTell the nations that He reigns,Who alone is Lord and God!

It is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down.How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal,Fling the joy from town to town!

It is done!

Clang of bell and roar of gun

Send the tidings up and down.

How the belfries rock and reel!

How the great guns, peal on peal,

Fling the joy from town to town!

Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime.Loud and long, that all may hear.Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time!

Ring, O bells!

Every stroke exulting tells

Of the burial hour of crime.

Loud and long, that all may hear.

Ring for every listening ear

Of Eternity and Time!

Let us kneel!God's own voice is in that peal,And this spot is holy ground.Lord, forgive us! What are we,That our eyes this glory see,That our ears have heard the sound!

Let us kneel!

God's own voice is in that peal,

And this spot is holy ground.

Lord, forgive us! What are we,

That our eyes this glory see,

That our ears have heard the sound!

For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake he has spoken;He has smitten with his thunderThe iron walls asunder,And the gates of brass are broken!

For the Lord

On the whirlwind is abroad;

In the earthquake he has spoken;

He has smitten with his thunder

The iron walls asunder,

And the gates of brass are broken!

Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the seaHe has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;"He hath triumphed gloriously!"

Loud and long

Lift the old exulting song;

Sing with Miriam by the sea

He has cast the mighty down;

Horse and rider sink and drown;

"He hath triumphed gloriously!"

Did we dareIn our agony of prayer,Ask for more than He has done?When was ever his right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun!

Did we dare

In our agony of prayer,

Ask for more than He has done?

When was ever his right hand

Over any time or land

Stretched as now beneath the sun!

How they pale,Ancient myth and song and tale,In this wonder of our days,When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous law,And the wrath of man is praise!

How they pale,

Ancient myth and song and tale,

In this wonder of our days,

When the cruel rod of war

Blossoms white with righteous law,

And the wrath of man is praise!

Blotted out!All within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin!

Blotted out!

All within and all about

Shall a fresher life begin;

Freer breathe the universe

As it rolls its heavy curse

On the dead and buried sin!

It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth.It shall bid the sad rejoice,It shall give the dumb a voice,It shall belt with joy the earth!

It is done!

In the circuit of the sun

Shall the sound thereof go forth.

It shall bid the sad rejoice,

It shall give the dumb a voice,

It shall belt with joy the earth!

Ring and swing,Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chainsTell the nations that He reigns,Who alone is Lord and God!

Ring and swing,

Bells of joy! On morning's wing

Send the song of praise abroad!

With a sound of broken chains

Tell the nations that He reigns,

Who alone is Lord and God!

FOOTNOTE:[24]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

[24]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast,And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed,And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er,When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,—Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame:Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,—They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer.Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea!And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free!The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roared;—this was their welcome home.There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band;Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land?There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth;There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth.What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine!Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod!They have left unstained what there they found,—freedom to worship God!

The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed,

And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,—Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame:Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,—They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer.

Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,—

Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame:

Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,—

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea!And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free!The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roared;—this was their welcome home.

Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free!

The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared;—this was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band;Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land?There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth;There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth.

There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band;

Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine!Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod!They have left unstained what there they found,—freedom to worship God!

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod!

They have left unstained what there they found,—freedom to worship God!

When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching breastRuns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West;And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb,To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublimeOf a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time.For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears alongRound the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or wrong;Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frameThrough its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame—In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments seeThat, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's sea;Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cryOf those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but recordOne death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne,Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own.We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great;Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate!But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within,"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes—they were souls that stood alone,While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone;Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam inclineTo the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divineBy one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learnedOne new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned,Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands,On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe returnTo glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn.'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slavesOf a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves.Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock sublime?They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires.Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps awayTo light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth;They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth;Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be,Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key.

When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast

Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West;

And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb,

To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime

Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears alongRound the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or wrong;Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frameThrough its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame—In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along

Round the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or wrong;

Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frame

Through its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame—

In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;

Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,

Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,

And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments seeThat, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's sea;Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cryOf those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.

Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments see

That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's sea;

Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry

Of those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;

Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.

Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but recordOne death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne,Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own.

Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but record

One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;

Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne,

Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,

Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own.

We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great;Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate!But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within,"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."

We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great;

Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate!

But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,

List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within,

"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."

Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,

Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;

Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,

Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,

And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes—they were souls that stood alone,While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone;Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam inclineTo the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divineBy one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes—they were souls that stood alone,

While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone;

Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam incline

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine

By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learnedOne new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned,Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,

Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,

And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned

One new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned,

Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands,On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe returnTo glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn.

For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands,

On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;

Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,

While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return

To glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slavesOf a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves.Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock sublime?

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves.

Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;

Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?

Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock sublime?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires.Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps awayTo light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,

Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires.

Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,

From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away

To light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth;They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth;Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be,Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key.

New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth;

They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth;

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be,

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,

Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key.

FOOTNOTE:[25]Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

[25]Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.

God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine;Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget.The tumult and the shouting dies,The captains and the kings depart—Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget.If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not thee in awe—Such boastings as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not thee to guard,For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!

God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine;Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget.

God of our fathers, known of old—

Lord of our far-flung battle line—

Beneath whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine;

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget,—lest we forget.

The tumult and the shouting dies,The captains and the kings depart—Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget.

The tumult and the shouting dies,

The captains and the kings depart—

Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget,—lest we forget.

If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not thee in awe—Such boastings as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not thee in awe—

Such boastings as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget,—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not thee to guard,For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard—

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not thee to guard,

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!

All true work is sacred; in all true hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart; which includes all Kepler's calculations, Newton's meditations, all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroism, martyrdoms—up to that "Agony of bloody sweat," which all men have called divine! Oh, brother, if this is not "worship," then, I say, the more pity for worship; for this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky!

Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workmen there, in God's Eternity; surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial Body-guard of the Empire of Mind. Even in the weak human memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peopling the immeasured solitudes of Time! To thee Heaven, though severe, is not unkind; Heaven is kind—as a noble mother; as that Spartan mother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home, in honor to thy far-distant home, doubt it not—if in the battle thou keep thy shield.

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