"Too many clusters weaken the vine"—And that is why, on this morn in May,She who should walk doth weakly reclineBy the window whose view overlooks the Bay;While I and the "clusters" dance in the sun,Defying the breeze coming in from the sea,Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee,Letting our fullness of mirth over-run,While the "Vine" at the window smiles down on our glee.If I should vow that these "clusters" are fair,So, you would say, are a million more;Ah, even jewels a rank must share—Not every diamond's a Koh-i-noor!Thus when ourLillian, needing but wings,Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deemGrace such as hers a bewildering dream—Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things,Furnish our worshiping fondness a theme.Or when ourAlice, scarcely less tall,And none the less fair, tries her slim baby feet,Or a new has lisped, to the pride of us all,Smiling, we cry, "was aught ever so sweet?"Even weeBertha, turning her eyes,Searching and slow from one face to another—Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise,And winking so soberly at her pale mother,For a baby, is wondrously pretty and wise!Well,letthe "vine" recline in the sun—Three such rare "clusters" in three short years,Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should run—For the choicest of species the gardener fears!Lillian, queen of the lilies shall be,Fair, tall and graceful—queenly in will;Alicea Provence rose—rarely sweet she;Bertha Narcissa—white daffodil—And the "vine," once more strong, shall entwine around the three!
"Too many clusters weaken the vine"—And that is why, on this morn in May,She who should walk doth weakly reclineBy the window whose view overlooks the Bay;While I and the "clusters" dance in the sun,Defying the breeze coming in from the sea,Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee,Letting our fullness of mirth over-run,While the "Vine" at the window smiles down on our glee.
"Too many clusters weaken the vine"—
And that is why, on this morn in May,
She who should walk doth weakly recline
By the window whose view overlooks the Bay;
While I and the "clusters" dance in the sun,
Defying the breeze coming in from the sea,
Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee,
Letting our fullness of mirth over-run,
While the "Vine" at the window smiles down on our glee.
If I should vow that these "clusters" are fair,So, you would say, are a million more;Ah, even jewels a rank must share—Not every diamond's a Koh-i-noor!Thus when ourLillian, needing but wings,Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deemGrace such as hers a bewildering dream—Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things,Furnish our worshiping fondness a theme.
If I should vow that these "clusters" are fair,
So, you would say, are a million more;
Ah, even jewels a rank must share—
Not every diamond's a Koh-i-noor!
Thus when ourLillian, needing but wings,
Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deem
Grace such as hers a bewildering dream—
Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things,
Furnish our worshiping fondness a theme.
Or when ourAlice, scarcely less tall,And none the less fair, tries her slim baby feet,Or a new has lisped, to the pride of us all,Smiling, we cry, "was aught ever so sweet?"Even weeBertha, turning her eyes,Searching and slow from one face to another—Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise,And winking so soberly at her pale mother,For a baby, is wondrously pretty and wise!
Or when ourAlice, scarcely less tall,
And none the less fair, tries her slim baby feet,
Or a new has lisped, to the pride of us all,
Smiling, we cry, "was aught ever so sweet?"
Even weeBertha, turning her eyes,
Searching and slow from one face to another—
Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise,
And winking so soberly at her pale mother,
For a baby, is wondrously pretty and wise!
Well,letthe "vine" recline in the sun—Three such rare "clusters" in three short years,Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should run—For the choicest of species the gardener fears!Lillian, queen of the lilies shall be,Fair, tall and graceful—queenly in will;Alicea Provence rose—rarely sweet she;Bertha Narcissa—white daffodil—And the "vine," once more strong, shall entwine around the three!
Well,letthe "vine" recline in the sun—
Three such rare "clusters" in three short years,
Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should run—
For the choicest of species the gardener fears!
Lillian, queen of the lilies shall be,
Fair, tall and graceful—queenly in will;
Alicea Provence rose—rarely sweet she;
Bertha Narcissa—white daffodil—
And the "vine," once more strong, shall entwine around the three!
WHAT THE SEA SAID TO ME.
One evening as I sat beside the sea,A little rippling wave stole up to me,And whispered softly, yet impressively,The word Eternity:I smiled, that anything so small should utter,A word the ocean in its wrath might mutter;And with a mirthful fancy, vainly strove,To suit its cadence to some word of love—But all the little wave would say to me,Was, over and again, Eternity!After a time, the winds, from their dark caves,Arose, and wrestled with the swelling waves,Shrieking as doth a madman when he raves;Yet still EternityWas spoken audibly unto my hearing;While foaming billows, their huge crests up-rearing,Rushed with a furious force upon the shore,That only answered with a sullen roar;As if it hoarsely echoed what the seaSaid with such emphasis—Eternity!And by and by, the sky grew dun and dim;Soon all was darkness, save the foam's white gleam;And all was silence save the sea's deep hymn—That hymn Eternity:While some dread presence, all the darkness filling,Crept round my heart, its healthy pulses chilling;Making the night, so awful unto me,More fearful with that word Eternity.So that my spirit, trembling and afraid,Bowed down itself before its God, and prayedFor His strong arm of terror to be stayed;And sighed EternityFrom its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding,Sank into broken murmurs; and the glidingOf the soothed waters seemed once more to meThe whisper I first heard, Eternity.But now I mocked not what the ripple said:I only reverently bent my head,While the pure stars, unveiled, their lustre shedUpon the peaceful sea—And the mild moon, with a majestic motion,Uprose, and shed upon the murmuring ocean,Her calm and radiant glory, as if sheKnew it the symbol of Eternity.
One evening as I sat beside the sea,A little rippling wave stole up to me,And whispered softly, yet impressively,The word Eternity:I smiled, that anything so small should utter,A word the ocean in its wrath might mutter;And with a mirthful fancy, vainly strove,To suit its cadence to some word of love—But all the little wave would say to me,Was, over and again, Eternity!
One evening as I sat beside the sea,
A little rippling wave stole up to me,
And whispered softly, yet impressively,
The word Eternity:
I smiled, that anything so small should utter,
A word the ocean in its wrath might mutter;
And with a mirthful fancy, vainly strove,
To suit its cadence to some word of love—
But all the little wave would say to me,
Was, over and again, Eternity!
After a time, the winds, from their dark caves,Arose, and wrestled with the swelling waves,Shrieking as doth a madman when he raves;Yet still EternityWas spoken audibly unto my hearing;While foaming billows, their huge crests up-rearing,Rushed with a furious force upon the shore,That only answered with a sullen roar;As if it hoarsely echoed what the seaSaid with such emphasis—Eternity!
After a time, the winds, from their dark caves,
Arose, and wrestled with the swelling waves,
Shrieking as doth a madman when he raves;
Yet still Eternity
Was spoken audibly unto my hearing;
While foaming billows, their huge crests up-rearing,
Rushed with a furious force upon the shore,
That only answered with a sullen roar;
As if it hoarsely echoed what the sea
Said with such emphasis—Eternity!
And by and by, the sky grew dun and dim;Soon all was darkness, save the foam's white gleam;And all was silence save the sea's deep hymn—That hymn Eternity:While some dread presence, all the darkness filling,Crept round my heart, its healthy pulses chilling;Making the night, so awful unto me,More fearful with that word Eternity.
And by and by, the sky grew dun and dim;
Soon all was darkness, save the foam's white gleam;
And all was silence save the sea's deep hymn—
That hymn Eternity:
While some dread presence, all the darkness filling,
Crept round my heart, its healthy pulses chilling;
Making the night, so awful unto me,
More fearful with that word Eternity.
So that my spirit, trembling and afraid,Bowed down itself before its God, and prayedFor His strong arm of terror to be stayed;And sighed EternityFrom its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding,Sank into broken murmurs; and the glidingOf the soothed waters seemed once more to meThe whisper I first heard, Eternity.
So that my spirit, trembling and afraid,
Bowed down itself before its God, and prayed
For His strong arm of terror to be stayed;
And sighed Eternity
From its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding,
Sank into broken murmurs; and the gliding
Of the soothed waters seemed once more to me
The whisper I first heard, Eternity.
But now I mocked not what the ripple said:I only reverently bent my head,While the pure stars, unveiled, their lustre shedUpon the peaceful sea—And the mild moon, with a majestic motion,Uprose, and shed upon the murmuring ocean,Her calm and radiant glory, as if sheKnew it the symbol of Eternity.
But now I mocked not what the ripple said:
I only reverently bent my head,
While the pure stars, unveiled, their lustre shed
Upon the peaceful sea—
And the mild moon, with a majestic motion,
Uprose, and shed upon the murmuring ocean,
Her calm and radiant glory, as if she
Knew it the symbol of Eternity.
HYMN.
Down through the dark, my God,Reach me Thy hand;Guide me along the roadI fail to understand.Blindly I grope my way,In doubt and fear,Uncertain when I prayIf Thou art near.O, God, renew my trust,Hear when I cry;Out of the cloud and dustLift me to thee on high.The crooked paths make plain,The burden light;Touch me and heal my pain,And clear my sight.O, take my hand in Thine,And lead me soThat all my steps inclineIn Thy right way to go.Out of this awful nightSome whisper send,That I may feel my God,My loving friend.O, let me feel and seeThy hand and face;And let me learn of TheeMy true right place.For I am Thine, and ThouArt also mine.Unto Thy will I bow,Helper divine!
Down through the dark, my God,Reach me Thy hand;Guide me along the roadI fail to understand.Blindly I grope my way,In doubt and fear,Uncertain when I prayIf Thou art near.
Down through the dark, my God,
Reach me Thy hand;
Guide me along the road
I fail to understand.
Blindly I grope my way,
In doubt and fear,
Uncertain when I pray
If Thou art near.
O, God, renew my trust,Hear when I cry;Out of the cloud and dustLift me to thee on high.The crooked paths make plain,The burden light;Touch me and heal my pain,And clear my sight.
O, God, renew my trust,
Hear when I cry;
Out of the cloud and dust
Lift me to thee on high.
The crooked paths make plain,
The burden light;
Touch me and heal my pain,
And clear my sight.
O, take my hand in Thine,And lead me soThat all my steps inclineIn Thy right way to go.Out of this awful nightSome whisper send,That I may feel my God,My loving friend.
O, take my hand in Thine,
And lead me so
That all my steps incline
In Thy right way to go.
Out of this awful night
Some whisper send,
That I may feel my God,
My loving friend.
O, let me feel and seeThy hand and face;And let me learn of TheeMy true right place.For I am Thine, and ThouArt also mine.Unto Thy will I bow,Helper divine!
O, let me feel and see
Thy hand and face;
And let me learn of Thee
My true right place.
For I am Thine, and Thou
Art also mine.
Unto Thy will I bow,
Helper divine!
DO YOU HEAR THE WOMEN PRAYING?
[Read before the Women's Prayer League of Portland, Oregon, May 27, 1874.]
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?Do you hear what words they say?These, this free-born nation's wives and mothers,Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray!Can you coldly look upon their faces,Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears;See their hands uplifted in their places—Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years?Can you see your wives and daughters pleadingIn the dust you spurn beneath your feet,Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding,To the scoffs and jestings of the street?Can you hear, and yet not heed the cryingOf the children perishing for bread?Born in fear, not love, and daily dying,Cursed of God, they think, but cursed ofyouinstead?Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer—Hear them asking for one boon above all others—Notfor vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear;But imploring, as their Lord did, "God forgive them,For they know not what they do;Strike the sin, but spare the sinners—save them"—Meaning, oh ye men and brothers,you!For your heels have ground the women's faces;You have coined their blood and tears for gold;Have betrayed their kisses and embraces—Returned their love with curses twentyfold;Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor,Made her motherhood a pain and dread;Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her;Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead!Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?Have you not one word to say?Will ajustGod be as gentle as these mothers,If you dare to say them nay?Oh, ye men, God waits foryouto answerThe prayers that to him rise,He waits to know ifyouare just ereHeis—There your deliverance lies!Rise and assert the manhood of this nation,Its courage, honor, might—Wipe off the dust of our humiliation—Dare nobly to do right!Shall women plead from out the dust forever?Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray?Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor,And seize the world's salvation while you may.Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean,The sound of prayer is heard;And in our hearts great billows of emotionAt every breath are stirred.From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valleyThe voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!"O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally—Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup!
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?Do you hear what words they say?These, this free-born nation's wives and mothers,Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray!Can you coldly look upon their faces,Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears;See their hands uplifted in their places—Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years?
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?
Do you hear what words they say?
These, this free-born nation's wives and mothers,
Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray!
Can you coldly look upon their faces,
Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears;
See their hands uplifted in their places—
Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years?
Can you see your wives and daughters pleadingIn the dust you spurn beneath your feet,Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding,To the scoffs and jestings of the street?Can you hear, and yet not heed the cryingOf the children perishing for bread?Born in fear, not love, and daily dying,Cursed of God, they think, but cursed ofyouinstead?
Can you see your wives and daughters pleading
In the dust you spurn beneath your feet,
Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding,
To the scoffs and jestings of the street?
Can you hear, and yet not heed the crying
Of the children perishing for bread?
Born in fear, not love, and daily dying,
Cursed of God, they think, but cursed ofyouinstead?
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer—Hear them asking for one boon above all others—Notfor vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear;But imploring, as their Lord did, "God forgive them,For they know not what they do;Strike the sin, but spare the sinners—save them"—Meaning, oh ye men and brothers,you!
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?
Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer—
Hear them asking for one boon above all others—
Notfor vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear;
But imploring, as their Lord did, "God forgive them,
For they know not what they do;
Strike the sin, but spare the sinners—save them"—
Meaning, oh ye men and brothers,you!
For your heels have ground the women's faces;You have coined their blood and tears for gold;Have betrayed their kisses and embraces—Returned their love with curses twentyfold;Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor,Made her motherhood a pain and dread;Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her;Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead!
For your heels have ground the women's faces;
You have coined their blood and tears for gold;
Have betrayed their kisses and embraces—
Returned their love with curses twentyfold;
Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor,
Made her motherhood a pain and dread;
Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her;
Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead!
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?Have you not one word to say?Will ajustGod be as gentle as these mothers,If you dare to say them nay?Oh, ye men, God waits foryouto answerThe prayers that to him rise,He waits to know ifyouare just ereHeis—There your deliverance lies!
Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?
Have you not one word to say?
Will ajustGod be as gentle as these mothers,
If you dare to say them nay?
Oh, ye men, God waits foryouto answer
The prayers that to him rise,
He waits to know ifyouare just ereHeis—
There your deliverance lies!
Rise and assert the manhood of this nation,Its courage, honor, might—Wipe off the dust of our humiliation—Dare nobly to do right!Shall women plead from out the dust forever?Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray?Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor,And seize the world's salvation while you may.
Rise and assert the manhood of this nation,
Its courage, honor, might—
Wipe off the dust of our humiliation—
Dare nobly to do right!
Shall women plead from out the dust forever?
Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray?
Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor,
And seize the world's salvation while you may.
Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean,The sound of prayer is heard;And in our hearts great billows of emotionAt every breath are stirred.From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valleyThe voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!"O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally—Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup!
Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean,
The sound of prayer is heard;
And in our hearts great billows of emotion
At every breath are stirred.
From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valley
The voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!"
O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally—
Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup!
"OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD."
Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie,On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dimAnd purple twilight, shut out from the sky,Which is too garish for my softer whim.And while I, looking inward on my thought,Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught,With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair:I shall see inly better if thou keepMy outer senses in a charmed sleep.Sweet friend!—I love that pleasant name of friend—We walk not ever singly, through the world;But even as our shadow doth attendOur going in the sunshine, and is furledAbout us in the darkness—so that shadeWhich haunts our other self, is faintly seenBeside us in our gladness, and is madeTo wrap us coldly life's bright hours between.Unconsciously we court it. In our youth,While yet our morning sky is pink with joy,We, curious if our happiness be truth,Try to discern the shadow of alloy.O, I remember well the earliest timeA sorrow touched me, and I nursed it then;Tho' but few summers of our northern climeHad sunned my growth among the souls of men.In an old wood, reputed for its age,And for its beauty wild and picturesque;The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage,Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque;And countless hues, from the dark stately pineThat whispered its wild mysteries to my ear,To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine,Showing between the aspens straight and fair;With forest flowers, and delicate vines that creptFrom the rich soil far up among the trees,Seeking that light their boughs did intercept,And dalliance and caresses of the breeze.In midst of these, sheltered from sun and windGlimmered a lake, in long and shining curves,Like a bright fillet that should serve to bindThat scene to earth—if she the gem deserves!For gem it was, as proud upon her browAs jewels on the forehead of a queen;And one thought as one turned from it, of howEve exiled, must have missed some just such scene.O, there I type my life! I used to sighSitting on this side, with my lap piled upWith violets of the real sapphire dye,For the gay gold of the bright buttercupSpangling the green sod on the other side—For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight,And the brief distance did not serve to hideWhat yet could not be reached except by sight.Day after day I dreamed there, while my heartGathered up knowledge in its childish way,Making fine pictures with unconscious art,And learning beauty more and more each day.Ever and ever haunted I that spot—Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills,That rising close around me, formed a grotFragrant with ferns, and musical with rills.Far up above me grew the long-armed beech,Dropping its branches down in graceful bent;While farther up, beyond my utmost reach,Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent.And all about were sweeter sights and soundsThan elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds.Thus, and because my life was all too fair,I sought to color it with thoughts I nursedIn sylvan solitudes: and in the airOf these soft, silent influences, I firstSaw, or felt, rather, that the shadow fellUpon my pathway from the light behind—The light of youth's first joyousness. Ah, well,If it had stayed there, nor been more unkind!My earliest sorrow was a flower's death—At which I wept until my swollen eyesRefused to shed more tears—just that my wreathOne morn in autumn lacked its choicest dyes.So, knowing what it was to have a loss,I went on losing, and the shadow grewDarker and longer, 'till it lies acrossMy pathway to the measure of my view.We all remember sorrow's first impress—No matter whether we had cause to grieve,Or whether sad in very willfulness—The lesson is the same that we receive.And afterwards, when the great shadow falls—The tempest—when the lightning's flash revealsThe darkness brooding o'er us, and appalsHope by the terror of the stroke it deals—Then, how the shadow hugs us in its fold!We see no light behind, and none to come;But dumbly shiver in the gloom and cold,Or with despair lie down, and wait our doom.Sweet, press thy cheek upon my own again—Even now my life's dark ghost is haunting nigh:Sing me to sleep with some old favorite strain—Some gentle poet's loving lullaby;For I would dream, and in my dream forgetOur twofold life is full of shadows set.
Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie,On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dimAnd purple twilight, shut out from the sky,Which is too garish for my softer whim.And while I, looking inward on my thought,Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught,With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair:I shall see inly better if thou keepMy outer senses in a charmed sleep.
Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie,
On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dim
And purple twilight, shut out from the sky,
Which is too garish for my softer whim.
And while I, looking inward on my thought,
Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.
Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught,
With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair:
I shall see inly better if thou keep
My outer senses in a charmed sleep.
Sweet friend!—I love that pleasant name of friend—We walk not ever singly, through the world;But even as our shadow doth attendOur going in the sunshine, and is furledAbout us in the darkness—so that shadeWhich haunts our other self, is faintly seenBeside us in our gladness, and is madeTo wrap us coldly life's bright hours between.Unconsciously we court it. In our youth,While yet our morning sky is pink with joy,We, curious if our happiness be truth,Try to discern the shadow of alloy.O, I remember well the earliest timeA sorrow touched me, and I nursed it then;Tho' but few summers of our northern climeHad sunned my growth among the souls of men.
Sweet friend!—I love that pleasant name of friend—
We walk not ever singly, through the world;
But even as our shadow doth attend
Our going in the sunshine, and is furled
About us in the darkness—so that shade
Which haunts our other self, is faintly seen
Beside us in our gladness, and is made
To wrap us coldly life's bright hours between.
Unconsciously we court it. In our youth,
While yet our morning sky is pink with joy,
We, curious if our happiness be truth,
Try to discern the shadow of alloy.
O, I remember well the earliest time
A sorrow touched me, and I nursed it then;
Tho' but few summers of our northern clime
Had sunned my growth among the souls of men.
In an old wood, reputed for its age,And for its beauty wild and picturesque;The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage,Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque;And countless hues, from the dark stately pineThat whispered its wild mysteries to my ear,To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine,Showing between the aspens straight and fair;With forest flowers, and delicate vines that creptFrom the rich soil far up among the trees,Seeking that light their boughs did intercept,And dalliance and caresses of the breeze.In midst of these, sheltered from sun and windGlimmered a lake, in long and shining curves,Like a bright fillet that should serve to bindThat scene to earth—if she the gem deserves!For gem it was, as proud upon her browAs jewels on the forehead of a queen;And one thought as one turned from it, of howEve exiled, must have missed some just such scene.O, there I type my life! I used to sighSitting on this side, with my lap piled upWith violets of the real sapphire dye,For the gay gold of the bright buttercupSpangling the green sod on the other side—For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight,And the brief distance did not serve to hideWhat yet could not be reached except by sight.
In an old wood, reputed for its age,
And for its beauty wild and picturesque;
The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage,
Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque;
And countless hues, from the dark stately pine
That whispered its wild mysteries to my ear,
To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine,
Showing between the aspens straight and fair;
With forest flowers, and delicate vines that crept
From the rich soil far up among the trees,
Seeking that light their boughs did intercept,
And dalliance and caresses of the breeze.
In midst of these, sheltered from sun and wind
Glimmered a lake, in long and shining curves,
Like a bright fillet that should serve to bind
That scene to earth—if she the gem deserves!
For gem it was, as proud upon her brow
As jewels on the forehead of a queen;
And one thought as one turned from it, of how
Eve exiled, must have missed some just such scene.
O, there I type my life! I used to sigh
Sitting on this side, with my lap piled up
With violets of the real sapphire dye,
For the gay gold of the bright buttercup
Spangling the green sod on the other side—
For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight,
And the brief distance did not serve to hide
What yet could not be reached except by sight.
Day after day I dreamed there, while my heartGathered up knowledge in its childish way,Making fine pictures with unconscious art,And learning beauty more and more each day.Ever and ever haunted I that spot—Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills,That rising close around me, formed a grotFragrant with ferns, and musical with rills.Far up above me grew the long-armed beech,Dropping its branches down in graceful bent;While farther up, beyond my utmost reach,Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent.And all about were sweeter sights and soundsThan elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds.
Day after day I dreamed there, while my heart
Gathered up knowledge in its childish way,
Making fine pictures with unconscious art,
And learning beauty more and more each day.
Ever and ever haunted I that spot—
Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills,
That rising close around me, formed a grot
Fragrant with ferns, and musical with rills.
Far up above me grew the long-armed beech,
Dropping its branches down in graceful bent;
While farther up, beyond my utmost reach,
Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent.
And all about were sweeter sights and sounds
Than elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds.
Thus, and because my life was all too fair,I sought to color it with thoughts I nursedIn sylvan solitudes: and in the airOf these soft, silent influences, I firstSaw, or felt, rather, that the shadow fellUpon my pathway from the light behind—The light of youth's first joyousness. Ah, well,If it had stayed there, nor been more unkind!My earliest sorrow was a flower's death—At which I wept until my swollen eyesRefused to shed more tears—just that my wreathOne morn in autumn lacked its choicest dyes.So, knowing what it was to have a loss,I went on losing, and the shadow grewDarker and longer, 'till it lies acrossMy pathway to the measure of my view.We all remember sorrow's first impress—No matter whether we had cause to grieve,Or whether sad in very willfulness—The lesson is the same that we receive.And afterwards, when the great shadow falls—The tempest—when the lightning's flash revealsThe darkness brooding o'er us, and appalsHope by the terror of the stroke it deals—Then, how the shadow hugs us in its fold!We see no light behind, and none to come;But dumbly shiver in the gloom and cold,Or with despair lie down, and wait our doom.
Thus, and because my life was all too fair,
I sought to color it with thoughts I nursed
In sylvan solitudes: and in the air
Of these soft, silent influences, I first
Saw, or felt, rather, that the shadow fell
Upon my pathway from the light behind—
The light of youth's first joyousness. Ah, well,
If it had stayed there, nor been more unkind!
My earliest sorrow was a flower's death—
At which I wept until my swollen eyes
Refused to shed more tears—just that my wreath
One morn in autumn lacked its choicest dyes.
So, knowing what it was to have a loss,
I went on losing, and the shadow grew
Darker and longer, 'till it lies across
My pathway to the measure of my view.
We all remember sorrow's first impress—
No matter whether we had cause to grieve,
Or whether sad in very willfulness—
The lesson is the same that we receive.
And afterwards, when the great shadow falls—
The tempest—when the lightning's flash reveals
The darkness brooding o'er us, and appals
Hope by the terror of the stroke it deals—
Then, how the shadow hugs us in its fold!
We see no light behind, and none to come;
But dumbly shiver in the gloom and cold,
Or with despair lie down, and wait our doom.
Sweet, press thy cheek upon my own again—Even now my life's dark ghost is haunting nigh:Sing me to sleep with some old favorite strain—Some gentle poet's loving lullaby;For I would dream, and in my dream forgetOur twofold life is full of shadows set.
Sweet, press thy cheek upon my own again—
Even now my life's dark ghost is haunting nigh:
Sing me to sleep with some old favorite strain—
Some gentle poet's loving lullaby;
For I would dream, and in my dream forget
Our twofold life is full of shadows set.
SOUVENIR.
You ask me, "Do you think of me?"Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river,Which pours itself into the sea,Yet empties its own channel never.All other thoughts are like these sailDrifting the river's surface over;Theyveer about with every gale—Theriverkeeps its course forever.So deep and still, so strong and true,The current of my soul sets thee-ward,Thy river I, my ocean you,And all myself am running seaward.
You ask me, "Do you think of me?"Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river,Which pours itself into the sea,Yet empties its own channel never.
You ask me, "Do you think of me?"
Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river,
Which pours itself into the sea,
Yet empties its own channel never.
All other thoughts are like these sailDrifting the river's surface over;Theyveer about with every gale—Theriverkeeps its course forever.
All other thoughts are like these sail
Drifting the river's surface over;
Theyveer about with every gale—
Theriverkeeps its course forever.
So deep and still, so strong and true,The current of my soul sets thee-ward,Thy river I, my ocean you,And all myself am running seaward.
So deep and still, so strong and true,
The current of my soul sets thee-ward,
Thy river I, my ocean you,
And all myself am running seaward.
I ONLY WISH TO KNOW.
Pray do not take the kiss againI risked so much in getting,Nor let my blushes make you vainTo your and my regretting.I'm sure I've heard your sex repeatA thousand times or so,That stolen kisses are most sweet—I only wished to know!I own 'twas not so neatly doneAs you know how to do it,And that the fright out-did the fun,But still I do not rue it.I can afford the extra beatMy heart took at your "Oh!"Which plainly saidthatkiss was sweet—When I so wished to know!Nay, I will not give back the kiss,Nor will I take a second;Creme de la cremeof pain and blissThis one shall e'er be reckoned.The pain was mine, the bliss was—ours,You smile to hear it so;But the same thought was surely yours,As I have cause to know.
Pray do not take the kiss againI risked so much in getting,Nor let my blushes make you vainTo your and my regretting.I'm sure I've heard your sex repeatA thousand times or so,That stolen kisses are most sweet—I only wished to know!
Pray do not take the kiss again
I risked so much in getting,
Nor let my blushes make you vain
To your and my regretting.
I'm sure I've heard your sex repeat
A thousand times or so,
That stolen kisses are most sweet—
I only wished to know!
I own 'twas not so neatly doneAs you know how to do it,And that the fright out-did the fun,But still I do not rue it.I can afford the extra beatMy heart took at your "Oh!"Which plainly saidthatkiss was sweet—When I so wished to know!
I own 'twas not so neatly done
As you know how to do it,
And that the fright out-did the fun,
But still I do not rue it.
I can afford the extra beat
My heart took at your "Oh!"
Which plainly saidthatkiss was sweet—
When I so wished to know!
Nay, I will not give back the kiss,Nor will I take a second;Creme de la cremeof pain and blissThis one shall e'er be reckoned.The pain was mine, the bliss was—ours,You smile to hear it so;But the same thought was surely yours,As I have cause to know.
Nay, I will not give back the kiss,
Nor will I take a second;
Creme de la cremeof pain and bliss
This one shall e'er be reckoned.
The pain was mine, the bliss was—ours,
You smile to hear it so;
But the same thought was surely yours,
As I have cause to know.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
The highest use of happy love is this;To make us loving to the loveless ones;Willing indeed to halve our meed of bliss,If our sweet plenty others' want atones:Of love's abundance may God give thee store,To spend in love's sweet charities,Lenore.
The highest use of happy love is this;To make us loving to the loveless ones;Willing indeed to halve our meed of bliss,If our sweet plenty others' want atones:Of love's abundance may God give thee store,To spend in love's sweet charities,Lenore.
The highest use of happy love is this;
To make us loving to the loveless ones;
Willing indeed to halve our meed of bliss,
If our sweet plenty others' want atones:
Of love's abundance may God give thee store,
To spend in love's sweet charities,Lenore.
LOVE'S FOOTSTEPS.
I sang a song of olden times,Sitting upon our sacred hill—Sang it to feel my bosom thrillTo the sweet pathos of its rhymes.I trilled the music o'er and o'er,And happy, gazed upon the scene,Thinking that there had never beenSo blue a sea, so fair a shore.A vague half dream was in my mind;I hardly saw how sat the sun;I noted not the day was goneThe rosy western hills behind.'Till, soft as if Apollo blewFor me the sweet Thessalian flute,I heard a sound which made me mute,And more than singing thrilled me through.Thy step—well known and well beloved!No more I dreamed on shore or sea;I thought of, saw but only thee,Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.
I sang a song of olden times,Sitting upon our sacred hill—Sang it to feel my bosom thrillTo the sweet pathos of its rhymes.
I sang a song of olden times,
Sitting upon our sacred hill—
Sang it to feel my bosom thrill
To the sweet pathos of its rhymes.
I trilled the music o'er and o'er,And happy, gazed upon the scene,Thinking that there had never beenSo blue a sea, so fair a shore.
I trilled the music o'er and o'er,
And happy, gazed upon the scene,
Thinking that there had never been
So blue a sea, so fair a shore.
A vague half dream was in my mind;I hardly saw how sat the sun;I noted not the day was goneThe rosy western hills behind.
A vague half dream was in my mind;
I hardly saw how sat the sun;
I noted not the day was gone
The rosy western hills behind.
'Till, soft as if Apollo blewFor me the sweet Thessalian flute,I heard a sound which made me mute,And more than singing thrilled me through.
'Till, soft as if Apollo blew
For me the sweet Thessalian flute,
I heard a sound which made me mute,
And more than singing thrilled me through.
Thy step—well known and well beloved!No more I dreamed on shore or sea;I thought of, saw but only thee,Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.
Thy step—well known and well beloved!
No more I dreamed on shore or sea;
I thought of, saw but only thee,
Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.
THE POET'S MINISTERS.
POET.Oh, my soul! the draught is bitterYet it must be sweetly drunken:Heart and soul! the grinding fetterGalls, yet have ye never shrunken:Heart and soul, and pining spirit,Fail me not! no coward weaknessSuch as ye are should inherit--Be ye strong even in your meekness.Born were ye to these strange uses,To brief joy and crushing ill,To small good and great abuses;Yet oh, yield not, till they kill.The stag wounded runneth steadyWith his blood in streams a-gushing;Soul and spirit, be ye readyFor the arrows toward ye rushing.SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.Now what ails our gentle friend?In his eye a meaning double,Sorrow and defiance blend--Let us soothe him of his trouble.Poet! do not pass us by:See how we are robed to meet you;Heed you not our perfumed sigh?Heed you not how sweet we greet you?Ever since the breath of mornWe have waited for your coming,Fearing when the bee's dull hornRound our quiet bower was humming:We have kept our sweets for thee--Poet, do not pass us by:Place us on thy breast, for see!By the sunset we must die.SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.Bathe thy pale face in the floodWhich overflows this crystal fountain,Then to rouse thy sluggish blood,Seek its source far up the mountain.Note thou how the stream doth singIts soft carol, low and light,To the jagged rocks that flingMildew shadows, black and blight.Learn a lesson from the stream,Poet! though thy path may lieHid forever from the gleamOf the blue and sunny sky,--Though thy way be steep and long,Sing thou still a cheerful song!SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly,With that rare juice whose magic power it is,To give the rose-hue to those things which trulyWear the sad livery of ugliness.Oh, dignify the office of the meanestOf all God's manifold created things;And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenestWaters of sweetness, from our fabled springs.Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness,Make him see everything with smiling eye;Let all his dreams be unsurpassed for fairness,And what we feign out-charm reality.Come, sister spirits, up and do your duty;When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty.SPIRIT OF THE TREES.Let us wave our branches gentlyWith a murmur low and loving;He will say we sang him quaintlySome old ballad, sweetly moving.'Tis of all the ways the surestTo awake a poet's fancies,For he loves these things the purest--Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies.He has loved us, we will love him,And will cheer his hour of sadness,Spirits, wave your boughs above himTo a measure of soft gladness.SPIRIT OF LOVE.Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well,But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth,And till I spell him with my magic spell,In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth.Behold I touch his heart, and there upspringBlooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes;His scornful lips upon the instant sing,And all his pulses leap with ecstasies.'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot liveWithout caressing and without caress,Which all to charity his fellows give;But I will wrap his soul in tenderness,And straightway from his lips will burst a songAll loving hearts shall echo and prolong.POET.O Earth, and Sky, and Flowers, and Streams agushing,God made ye beautiful to make us blest:O bright-winged Songsters through the blue air rushing;O murmuring Tree-tops, by the winds carest;O Waves of Ocean, Ripples of the River,O Dew and Fragrance, Sunlight, and Starbeam,O blessed summer-sounds that round me quiver,Delights impassable that round me teem--Oh all things beautiful! God made ye soThat the glad hearts of men might overflow!O Soul within me, whose wings sweep a lyre--God gave thee song that thou might'st give him praise;O Heart that glows with the Promethean fire,O Spirit whose fine chords some influence plays:O all sweet thoughts and beautiful emotions,O smiles and tears, and trembling and delight,Have ye not all part in the soul's devotions,To help it swell its anthem's happy height?Spirit of Love, of God, of inspiration,The poet's glad heart bursts in acclamation!CHORUS OF SPIRITS.Ring every flower-bell on the wind,And let each insect louder sing;Let elfin "joy be unconfined;"And let the laughing fairies bringA wreath enchanted, and to bindUpon the Poet's worthy browHeartsease and laurel, and a kindOf valley lily, white as snow;And fresh May-roses, branching long--Braid all these in a garland gay,To crown the Poet for his song,Sung in our haunts this summer day!
POET.
POET.
Oh, my soul! the draught is bitterYet it must be sweetly drunken:Heart and soul! the grinding fetterGalls, yet have ye never shrunken:Heart and soul, and pining spirit,Fail me not! no coward weaknessSuch as ye are should inherit--Be ye strong even in your meekness.
Oh, my soul! the draught is bitter
Yet it must be sweetly drunken:
Heart and soul! the grinding fetter
Galls, yet have ye never shrunken:
Heart and soul, and pining spirit,
Fail me not! no coward weakness
Such as ye are should inherit--
Be ye strong even in your meekness.
Born were ye to these strange uses,To brief joy and crushing ill,To small good and great abuses;Yet oh, yield not, till they kill.The stag wounded runneth steadyWith his blood in streams a-gushing;Soul and spirit, be ye readyFor the arrows toward ye rushing.
Born were ye to these strange uses,
To brief joy and crushing ill,
To small good and great abuses;
Yet oh, yield not, till they kill.
The stag wounded runneth steady
With his blood in streams a-gushing;
Soul and spirit, be ye ready
For the arrows toward ye rushing.
SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.
SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.
Now what ails our gentle friend?In his eye a meaning double,Sorrow and defiance blend--Let us soothe him of his trouble.Poet! do not pass us by:See how we are robed to meet you;Heed you not our perfumed sigh?Heed you not how sweet we greet you?Ever since the breath of mornWe have waited for your coming,Fearing when the bee's dull hornRound our quiet bower was humming:We have kept our sweets for thee--Poet, do not pass us by:Place us on thy breast, for see!By the sunset we must die.
Now what ails our gentle friend?
In his eye a meaning double,
Sorrow and defiance blend--
Let us soothe him of his trouble.
Poet! do not pass us by:
See how we are robed to meet you;
Heed you not our perfumed sigh?
Heed you not how sweet we greet you?
Ever since the breath of morn
We have waited for your coming,
Fearing when the bee's dull horn
Round our quiet bower was humming:
We have kept our sweets for thee--
Poet, do not pass us by:
Place us on thy breast, for see!
By the sunset we must die.
SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.
SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.
Bathe thy pale face in the floodWhich overflows this crystal fountain,Then to rouse thy sluggish blood,Seek its source far up the mountain.Note thou how the stream doth singIts soft carol, low and light,To the jagged rocks that flingMildew shadows, black and blight.Learn a lesson from the stream,Poet! though thy path may lieHid forever from the gleamOf the blue and sunny sky,--Though thy way be steep and long,Sing thou still a cheerful song!
Bathe thy pale face in the flood
Which overflows this crystal fountain,
Then to rouse thy sluggish blood,
Seek its source far up the mountain.
Note thou how the stream doth sing
Its soft carol, low and light,
To the jagged rocks that fling
Mildew shadows, black and blight.
Learn a lesson from the stream,
Poet! though thy path may lie
Hid forever from the gleam
Of the blue and sunny sky,--
Though thy way be steep and long,
Sing thou still a cheerful song!
SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.
SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.
Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly,With that rare juice whose magic power it is,To give the rose-hue to those things which trulyWear the sad livery of ugliness.Oh, dignify the office of the meanestOf all God's manifold created things;And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenestWaters of sweetness, from our fabled springs.Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness,Make him see everything with smiling eye;Let all his dreams be unsurpassed for fairness,And what we feign out-charm reality.Come, sister spirits, up and do your duty;When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty.
Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly,
With that rare juice whose magic power it is,
To give the rose-hue to those things which truly
Wear the sad livery of ugliness.
Oh, dignify the office of the meanest
Of all God's manifold created things;
And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenest
Waters of sweetness, from our fabled springs.
Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness,
Make him see everything with smiling eye;
Let all his dreams be unsurpassed for fairness,
And what we feign out-charm reality.
Come, sister spirits, up and do your duty;
When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty.
SPIRIT OF THE TREES.
SPIRIT OF THE TREES.
Let us wave our branches gentlyWith a murmur low and loving;He will say we sang him quaintlySome old ballad, sweetly moving.'Tis of all the ways the surestTo awake a poet's fancies,For he loves these things the purest--Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies.He has loved us, we will love him,And will cheer his hour of sadness,Spirits, wave your boughs above himTo a measure of soft gladness.
Let us wave our branches gently
With a murmur low and loving;
He will say we sang him quaintly
Some old ballad, sweetly moving.
'Tis of all the ways the surest
To awake a poet's fancies,
For he loves these things the purest--
Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies.
He has loved us, we will love him,
And will cheer his hour of sadness,
Spirits, wave your boughs above him
To a measure of soft gladness.
SPIRIT OF LOVE.
SPIRIT OF LOVE.
Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well,But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth,And till I spell him with my magic spell,In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth.Behold I touch his heart, and there upspringBlooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes;His scornful lips upon the instant sing,And all his pulses leap with ecstasies.'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot liveWithout caressing and without caress,Which all to charity his fellows give;But I will wrap his soul in tenderness,And straightway from his lips will burst a songAll loving hearts shall echo and prolong.
Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well,
But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth,
And till I spell him with my magic spell,
In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth.
Behold I touch his heart, and there upspring
Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes;
His scornful lips upon the instant sing,
And all his pulses leap with ecstasies.
'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live
Without caressing and without caress,
Which all to charity his fellows give;
But I will wrap his soul in tenderness,
And straightway from his lips will burst a song
All loving hearts shall echo and prolong.
POET.
POET.
O Earth, and Sky, and Flowers, and Streams agushing,God made ye beautiful to make us blest:O bright-winged Songsters through the blue air rushing;O murmuring Tree-tops, by the winds carest;O Waves of Ocean, Ripples of the River,O Dew and Fragrance, Sunlight, and Starbeam,O blessed summer-sounds that round me quiver,Delights impassable that round me teem--Oh all things beautiful! God made ye soThat the glad hearts of men might overflow!
O Earth, and Sky, and Flowers, and Streams agushing,
God made ye beautiful to make us blest:
O bright-winged Songsters through the blue air rushing;
O murmuring Tree-tops, by the winds carest;
O Waves of Ocean, Ripples of the River,
O Dew and Fragrance, Sunlight, and Starbeam,
O blessed summer-sounds that round me quiver,
Delights impassable that round me teem--
Oh all things beautiful! God made ye so
That the glad hearts of men might overflow!
O Soul within me, whose wings sweep a lyre--God gave thee song that thou might'st give him praise;O Heart that glows with the Promethean fire,O Spirit whose fine chords some influence plays:O all sweet thoughts and beautiful emotions,O smiles and tears, and trembling and delight,Have ye not all part in the soul's devotions,To help it swell its anthem's happy height?Spirit of Love, of God, of inspiration,The poet's glad heart bursts in acclamation!
O Soul within me, whose wings sweep a lyre--
God gave thee song that thou might'st give him praise;
O Heart that glows with the Promethean fire,
O Spirit whose fine chords some influence plays:
O all sweet thoughts and beautiful emotions,
O smiles and tears, and trembling and delight,
Have ye not all part in the soul's devotions,
To help it swell its anthem's happy height?
Spirit of Love, of God, of inspiration,
The poet's glad heart bursts in acclamation!
CHORUS OF SPIRITS.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS.
Ring every flower-bell on the wind,And let each insect louder sing;Let elfin "joy be unconfined;"And let the laughing fairies bringA wreath enchanted, and to bindUpon the Poet's worthy browHeartsease and laurel, and a kindOf valley lily, white as snow;And fresh May-roses, branching long--Braid all these in a garland gay,To crown the Poet for his song,Sung in our haunts this summer day!
Ring every flower-bell on the wind,
And let each insect louder sing;
Let elfin "joy be unconfined;"
And let the laughing fairies bring
A wreath enchanted, and to bind
Upon the Poet's worthy brow
Heartsease and laurel, and a kind
Of valley lily, white as snow;
And fresh May-roses, branching long--
Braid all these in a garland gay,
To crown the Poet for his song,
Sung in our haunts this summer day!
SUNSET AT THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA.
There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old,Servant of crafty Spain,He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold,Wide o'er the western main,A thousand spear heads glint beyond the treesIn columns bright and long:While kindling fancy hears upon the breezeThe swell and shout of song.And yet, not here Spain's gay, adventurous host,Dipped sword or planted cross;The treasures guarded by this rock-bound coast,Counted them gain nor loss.The blue Columbia, sired by the eternal hills,And wedded with the sea;O'er golden sands, tithes from a thousand rills,Rolled in lone majesty—Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain,Through wild and rocky strait,Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain,Toward the sunset gate.While curious eyes, keen with the lust of gold,Caught not the informing gleam;These mighty breakers age on age have rolledTo meet this mighty stream.Age after age these noble hills have kept,The same majestic lines:Age after age the horizon's edge been sweptBy fringe of pointed pines.Summers and Winters circling came and went,Bringing no change of scene;Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent,Dwelt nature here serene.Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed,In this selected soil;Denied forever unto blood and greed;But blest to honest toil.There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no moreHis banners trail the sea,And all his legions shining on the shoreFade into mystery.The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach,Like any starving thing;And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach,In vain clamoring.The shadows fall; just level with mine eyeSweet Hesper stands and shines,And shines beneath an arc of golden sky,Pinked round with pointed pines.A noble scene! all breadth, deep tone and power,Suggesting glorious themes;Shaming the idler who would fill the hourWith unsubstantial dreams.Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forthThe things that yet shall be,When through this gate the treasures of the NorthFlow outward to the sea.
There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old,Servant of crafty Spain,He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold,Wide o'er the western main,A thousand spear heads glint beyond the treesIn columns bright and long:While kindling fancy hears upon the breezeThe swell and shout of song.
There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old,
Servant of crafty Spain,
He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold,
Wide o'er the western main,
A thousand spear heads glint beyond the trees
In columns bright and long:
While kindling fancy hears upon the breeze
The swell and shout of song.
And yet, not here Spain's gay, adventurous host,Dipped sword or planted cross;The treasures guarded by this rock-bound coast,Counted them gain nor loss.The blue Columbia, sired by the eternal hills,And wedded with the sea;O'er golden sands, tithes from a thousand rills,Rolled in lone majesty—
And yet, not here Spain's gay, adventurous host,
Dipped sword or planted cross;
The treasures guarded by this rock-bound coast,
Counted them gain nor loss.
The blue Columbia, sired by the eternal hills,
And wedded with the sea;
O'er golden sands, tithes from a thousand rills,
Rolled in lone majesty—
Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain,Through wild and rocky strait,Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain,Toward the sunset gate.While curious eyes, keen with the lust of gold,Caught not the informing gleam;These mighty breakers age on age have rolledTo meet this mighty stream.
Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain,
Through wild and rocky strait,
Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain,
Toward the sunset gate.
While curious eyes, keen with the lust of gold,
Caught not the informing gleam;
These mighty breakers age on age have rolled
To meet this mighty stream.
Age after age these noble hills have kept,The same majestic lines:Age after age the horizon's edge been sweptBy fringe of pointed pines.Summers and Winters circling came and went,Bringing no change of scene;Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent,Dwelt nature here serene.
Age after age these noble hills have kept,
The same majestic lines:
Age after age the horizon's edge been swept
By fringe of pointed pines.
Summers and Winters circling came and went,
Bringing no change of scene;
Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent,
Dwelt nature here serene.
Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed,In this selected soil;Denied forever unto blood and greed;But blest to honest toil.There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no moreHis banners trail the sea,And all his legions shining on the shoreFade into mystery.
Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed,
In this selected soil;
Denied forever unto blood and greed;
But blest to honest toil.
There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no more
His banners trail the sea,
And all his legions shining on the shore
Fade into mystery.
The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach,Like any starving thing;And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach,In vain clamoring.The shadows fall; just level with mine eyeSweet Hesper stands and shines,And shines beneath an arc of golden sky,Pinked round with pointed pines.
The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach,
Like any starving thing;
And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach,
In vain clamoring.
The shadows fall; just level with mine eye
Sweet Hesper stands and shines,
And shines beneath an arc of golden sky,
Pinked round with pointed pines.
A noble scene! all breadth, deep tone and power,Suggesting glorious themes;Shaming the idler who would fill the hourWith unsubstantial dreams.Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forthThe things that yet shall be,When through this gate the treasures of the NorthFlow outward to the sea.
A noble scene! all breadth, deep tone and power,
Suggesting glorious themes;
Shaming the idler who would fill the hour
With unsubstantial dreams.
Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forth
The things that yet shall be,
When through this gate the treasures of the North
Flow outward to the sea.
THE PASSING OF THE YEAR.
Worn and poor,The Old Year came to Eternity's door.Once, when his limbs were young and strong,From that shining portal came he forth,Led by the sound of shout and song,To the festive halls of jubilant earth;—Now, his allotted cycle o'er,He waited, spent, by the Golden Door.Faint and far—faint and far,Surging up soft between sun and star,Strains of revelry smote his ear;Musical murmurs from lyre and lute—Rising in choruses grand and clear,Sinking in cadences almost mute—Vexing the ear of him who sateWearied beside the Shining Gate.Sad and low,Flowed in an undertone of woe:Wailing among the moons it came,Sobbing in echoes against the stars;Smothered behind some comet's flame,Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars,—Mingling, ever and anon,With the music's swell a sigh or moan."As in a glass,Let the earth once before me pass,"The Old Year said; and space untoldVanished, till nothing came between;Folded away, crystal and gold,Nor azure air did intervene;"As in a glass" he saw the earthDecking a bier and waiting a birth."You crown me dead," the Old Year said,"Before my parting hour is sped:O fickle, false, and reckless world!Time to Eternity may not haste;Not till the last Hour's wing is furledWithin the gate my reign is past!O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain,I grieve not at my closing reign."Yet spirit-soreThe dead king noted a palace door;He saw the gay crowd gather in;He scanned the face of each passer by;Snowiest soul, and heart of sin;Tried and untried humanity:Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain,Braided at chance in a motley skein."Ill betideYe thankless ones!" the Old Year cried;"Have I not given you night and day,Over and over, score upon score,Wherein to live, and love, and pray,And suck the ripe world to its rotten core?Yet do you reek if my reign be done?E're I pass ye crown the newer one!At ball and rout ye dance and shout,Shutting men's cries of suffering out,That startle the white-tressed silencesMusing beside the fount of light,In the eternal space, to pressTheir roses, each a nebula bright,More close to their lips serene,While ye wear this unconscious mein!""Even so."The revelers said: "We'll have naught of woe.Why should we mourn, who have our fill?Enough that the hungry wretches cry:We from our plenty cast at willSome crumbs to make their wet eyelids dry;But to the rich the world is fair—Why should we grovel in tears and prayer?"In her innocent bliss,A fair bride said with sweet earnestness,"For the dead Year am I truly sad;Since in its happy and hopeful days,Every brief hour my heart was glad,And blessings were strewn in all my ways:Will it be so forevermore?Will the New Years bring of love new store?"Youth and maid.Of their conscious blushes half afraid,Shunning each other's tell-tale eyes,Yet cherishing hopes too fond to own;Speed the Old Year with secret sighs;And smile that his time is overflown;Shall they not hear each other say"Dear Love!" ere the New Year's passed away?"O, haste on!The year or the pleasure is dead that is gone!"Boasted the man of pomp and power;"That which we hold is alone the good;Give me new pleasures for every hour,And grieve over past joys ye who would—Joys that are fled are poor, I wis—Give me forever the newest bliss!""Wish me joy,"Girl-Beauty cried, with glances coy:"In the New Year a woman I;I'll then have jewels in my hair,And such rare webs as Princes buyBe none too choice for me to wear:I'll queen it as a beauty should,And not be won before I'm wooed!""Poor and proud—poor and proud!"Sighed a student in the motley crowd—"I heard her whisper that aside:O fatal fairness, aping heavenWhen earthly most!—I'll not deride—God knows that were all good gifts givenTo me as lavishly as rain,I'd bring them to her feet again.""Here are the fools we use for tools;Bending their passion, ere it cools,To any need," the cynic said:"Lo, I will give him gold, and heShall sell me brain as it were bread!His very soul I'll hold in feeFor baubles that shall buy the handOf the coldest woman in the land!"Spirit sore,The Old Year cared to see no more;While, as he turned, he heard a moan—Frosty and keen was the wintry night—Prone on the marble paving-stone,Unwatched, unwept, a piteous sight,Starved and dying a poor wretch lay;Through the blast he heard him gasping say:"O, Old Year!From sightless eyes you force this tear;Sorrows you've heaped upon my head,Losses you've gathered to drive me wild,All that I lived for, loved, are dead,—Brother and sister, wife and child,I, too, am perishing as well;I shall share the toll of your passing bell!"Grieved, and sad,For the sins and woes the Human had,The Old Year strove to avert his eyes;But fly or turn wherever he would,On his vexed ear smote the mingled criesOf revel and new-made widowhood—Of grief that would not be comfortedWith the loved and beautiful lying dead.Evermore, every hour,Rising from hovel, hall and tower,Swelling the strain of discontent;Gurgled the hopeless prayer for alms,Rung out the wild oath impotent;Echoed by some brief walls of calms,Straining the listener's shrinking ears,Like silence when thunderbolts are near.Across that calm, like gales of balm,Some low, sweet household voices came;Thrilling, like flute-notes straying outFrom land to sea, some stormy night,The ear that listens for the shoutOf drowning boatmen lost to sight—And died away, again so soonThe pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon.Once pure and clear,Clarion strains fell on his ear:The preacher shook the soulless creeds,And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words,Yet failed to stir them to good deeds:Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds,Soared on the air and glanced away,Before the eloquent voice could stay."'Tis very sad the man is mad,"The men and women gaily said;As they, laughing, thread their homeward road,Talking of other holidays;Of last year, how it rained or snowed;Who went abroad, who wed a blazeOf diamonds with his shoddy bride,On certain days—and who had died."Would I were dead,And vexed no more," the Old Year said:"In vain may the preacher pray and warn;The tinkling cymbals in your earsTurn every gracious word to scorn;Ye care not for the orphan's tears;Your sides are fed, and your bodies cladIs there anything heaven itself could add?"And then he sighed, as one who died,With a great wish unsatisfied;Around him like a wintry sea,Whose waves were nations, surged the world,Stormy, unstable, constantlyUpheaved to be again down-hurled;Here struggled some for freedom; hereOppression rode in the high career.In hot debateMen struggled, while the hours waxed late;Contending with the watchful zealOf gladiators, trained to die;Yet not for life, nor country's weal,But that their names might hang on highAs men who loved themselves, indeed,And robbed the State to satisfy their need!Heads of snow, and eyes aglowWith fires that youth might blush to know;And brows whose youthful fairness shamedThe desperate thoughts that strove within;While each his cause exulting namedAs purest that the world had seen:All names they had to tickle honest ears,Reform, and Rights, and sweet Philanthropy's cares."Well-a-day! Well-a-day!"The Old Year strove to put awaySight and sound of the reckless earth;But soft! from out a cottage door,Sweet strains of neither grief nor mirth,Upon his dying ear did pour;"Give us, O God," the singers said,"As good a year as this one dead!"Pealing loud from sod to cloud,Earth's bell's rang out in a chorus proud;Great waves of music shook the airFrom organs pulsing with the sound;Hushed was the voice of sob and prayer,As time touched the eternal bound:To the dead monarch earth was dimmed,But the golden portals brighter beamed.Sad no more,The Old Year reached the golden door,Just as the hours with crystal clangAside the shining portals bentAnd murmuring 'mong the spheres there rangThe chorus of earth's acknowledgment:One had passed out at the golden door,And one had gone in forevermore!
Worn and poor,The Old Year came to Eternity's door.Once, when his limbs were young and strong,From that shining portal came he forth,Led by the sound of shout and song,To the festive halls of jubilant earth;—Now, his allotted cycle o'er,He waited, spent, by the Golden Door.
Worn and poor,
The Old Year came to Eternity's door.
Once, when his limbs were young and strong,
From that shining portal came he forth,
Led by the sound of shout and song,
To the festive halls of jubilant earth;—
Now, his allotted cycle o'er,
He waited, spent, by the Golden Door.
Faint and far—faint and far,Surging up soft between sun and star,Strains of revelry smote his ear;Musical murmurs from lyre and lute—Rising in choruses grand and clear,Sinking in cadences almost mute—Vexing the ear of him who sateWearied beside the Shining Gate.
Faint and far—faint and far,
Surging up soft between sun and star,
Strains of revelry smote his ear;
Musical murmurs from lyre and lute—
Rising in choruses grand and clear,
Sinking in cadences almost mute—
Vexing the ear of him who sate
Wearied beside the Shining Gate.
Sad and low,Flowed in an undertone of woe:Wailing among the moons it came,Sobbing in echoes against the stars;Smothered behind some comet's flame,Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars,—Mingling, ever and anon,With the music's swell a sigh or moan.
Sad and low,
Flowed in an undertone of woe:
Wailing among the moons it came,
Sobbing in echoes against the stars;
Smothered behind some comet's flame,
Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars,
—Mingling, ever and anon,
With the music's swell a sigh or moan.
"As in a glass,Let the earth once before me pass,"The Old Year said; and space untoldVanished, till nothing came between;Folded away, crystal and gold,Nor azure air did intervene;"As in a glass" he saw the earthDecking a bier and waiting a birth.
"As in a glass,
Let the earth once before me pass,"
The Old Year said; and space untold
Vanished, till nothing came between;
Folded away, crystal and gold,
Nor azure air did intervene;
"As in a glass" he saw the earth
Decking a bier and waiting a birth.
"You crown me dead," the Old Year said,"Before my parting hour is sped:O fickle, false, and reckless world!Time to Eternity may not haste;Not till the last Hour's wing is furledWithin the gate my reign is past!O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain,I grieve not at my closing reign."
"You crown me dead," the Old Year said,
"Before my parting hour is sped:
O fickle, false, and reckless world!
Time to Eternity may not haste;
Not till the last Hour's wing is furled
Within the gate my reign is past!
O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain,
I grieve not at my closing reign."
Yet spirit-soreThe dead king noted a palace door;He saw the gay crowd gather in;He scanned the face of each passer by;Snowiest soul, and heart of sin;Tried and untried humanity:Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain,Braided at chance in a motley skein.
Yet spirit-sore
The dead king noted a palace door;
He saw the gay crowd gather in;
He scanned the face of each passer by;
Snowiest soul, and heart of sin;
Tried and untried humanity:
Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain,
Braided at chance in a motley skein.
"Ill betideYe thankless ones!" the Old Year cried;"Have I not given you night and day,Over and over, score upon score,Wherein to live, and love, and pray,And suck the ripe world to its rotten core?Yet do you reek if my reign be done?E're I pass ye crown the newer one!At ball and rout ye dance and shout,Shutting men's cries of suffering out,That startle the white-tressed silencesMusing beside the fount of light,In the eternal space, to pressTheir roses, each a nebula bright,More close to their lips serene,While ye wear this unconscious mein!"
"Ill betide
Ye thankless ones!" the Old Year cried;
"Have I not given you night and day,
Over and over, score upon score,
Wherein to live, and love, and pray,
And suck the ripe world to its rotten core?
Yet do you reek if my reign be done?
E're I pass ye crown the newer one!
At ball and rout ye dance and shout,
Shutting men's cries of suffering out,
That startle the white-tressed silences
Musing beside the fount of light,
In the eternal space, to press
Their roses, each a nebula bright,
More close to their lips serene,
While ye wear this unconscious mein!"
"Even so."The revelers said: "We'll have naught of woe.Why should we mourn, who have our fill?Enough that the hungry wretches cry:We from our plenty cast at willSome crumbs to make their wet eyelids dry;But to the rich the world is fair—Why should we grovel in tears and prayer?"
"Even so."
The revelers said: "We'll have naught of woe.
Why should we mourn, who have our fill?
Enough that the hungry wretches cry:
We from our plenty cast at will
Some crumbs to make their wet eyelids dry;
But to the rich the world is fair—
Why should we grovel in tears and prayer?"
In her innocent bliss,A fair bride said with sweet earnestness,"For the dead Year am I truly sad;Since in its happy and hopeful days,Every brief hour my heart was glad,And blessings were strewn in all my ways:Will it be so forevermore?Will the New Years bring of love new store?"
In her innocent bliss,
A fair bride said with sweet earnestness,
"For the dead Year am I truly sad;
Since in its happy and hopeful days,
Every brief hour my heart was glad,
And blessings were strewn in all my ways:
Will it be so forevermore?
Will the New Years bring of love new store?"
Youth and maid.Of their conscious blushes half afraid,Shunning each other's tell-tale eyes,Yet cherishing hopes too fond to own;Speed the Old Year with secret sighs;And smile that his time is overflown;Shall they not hear each other say"Dear Love!" ere the New Year's passed away?
Youth and maid.
Of their conscious blushes half afraid,
Shunning each other's tell-tale eyes,
Yet cherishing hopes too fond to own;
Speed the Old Year with secret sighs;
And smile that his time is overflown;
Shall they not hear each other say
"Dear Love!" ere the New Year's passed away?
"O, haste on!The year or the pleasure is dead that is gone!"Boasted the man of pomp and power;"That which we hold is alone the good;Give me new pleasures for every hour,And grieve over past joys ye who would—Joys that are fled are poor, I wis—Give me forever the newest bliss!"
"O, haste on!
The year or the pleasure is dead that is gone!"
Boasted the man of pomp and power;
"That which we hold is alone the good;
Give me new pleasures for every hour,
And grieve over past joys ye who would—
Joys that are fled are poor, I wis—
Give me forever the newest bliss!"
"Wish me joy,"Girl-Beauty cried, with glances coy:"In the New Year a woman I;I'll then have jewels in my hair,And such rare webs as Princes buyBe none too choice for me to wear:I'll queen it as a beauty should,And not be won before I'm wooed!"
"Wish me joy,"
Girl-Beauty cried, with glances coy:
"In the New Year a woman I;
I'll then have jewels in my hair,
And such rare webs as Princes buy
Be none too choice for me to wear:
I'll queen it as a beauty should,
And not be won before I'm wooed!"
"Poor and proud—poor and proud!"Sighed a student in the motley crowd—"I heard her whisper that aside:O fatal fairness, aping heavenWhen earthly most!—I'll not deride—God knows that were all good gifts givenTo me as lavishly as rain,I'd bring them to her feet again."
"Poor and proud—poor and proud!"
Sighed a student in the motley crowd—
"I heard her whisper that aside:
O fatal fairness, aping heaven
When earthly most!—I'll not deride—
God knows that were all good gifts given
To me as lavishly as rain,
I'd bring them to her feet again."
"Here are the fools we use for tools;Bending their passion, ere it cools,To any need," the cynic said:"Lo, I will give him gold, and heShall sell me brain as it were bread!His very soul I'll hold in feeFor baubles that shall buy the handOf the coldest woman in the land!"
"Here are the fools we use for tools;
Bending their passion, ere it cools,
To any need," the cynic said:
"Lo, I will give him gold, and he
Shall sell me brain as it were bread!
His very soul I'll hold in fee
For baubles that shall buy the hand
Of the coldest woman in the land!"
Spirit sore,The Old Year cared to see no more;While, as he turned, he heard a moan—Frosty and keen was the wintry night—Prone on the marble paving-stone,Unwatched, unwept, a piteous sight,Starved and dying a poor wretch lay;Through the blast he heard him gasping say:
Spirit sore,
The Old Year cared to see no more;
While, as he turned, he heard a moan—
Frosty and keen was the wintry night—
Prone on the marble paving-stone,
Unwatched, unwept, a piteous sight,
Starved and dying a poor wretch lay;
Through the blast he heard him gasping say:
"O, Old Year!From sightless eyes you force this tear;Sorrows you've heaped upon my head,Losses you've gathered to drive me wild,All that I lived for, loved, are dead,—Brother and sister, wife and child,I, too, am perishing as well;I shall share the toll of your passing bell!"
"O, Old Year!
From sightless eyes you force this tear;
Sorrows you've heaped upon my head,
Losses you've gathered to drive me wild,
All that I lived for, loved, are dead,—
Brother and sister, wife and child,
I, too, am perishing as well;
I shall share the toll of your passing bell!"
Grieved, and sad,For the sins and woes the Human had,The Old Year strove to avert his eyes;But fly or turn wherever he would,On his vexed ear smote the mingled criesOf revel and new-made widowhood—Of grief that would not be comfortedWith the loved and beautiful lying dead.
Grieved, and sad,
For the sins and woes the Human had,
The Old Year strove to avert his eyes;
But fly or turn wherever he would,
On his vexed ear smote the mingled cries
Of revel and new-made widowhood—
Of grief that would not be comforted
With the loved and beautiful lying dead.
Evermore, every hour,Rising from hovel, hall and tower,Swelling the strain of discontent;Gurgled the hopeless prayer for alms,Rung out the wild oath impotent;Echoed by some brief walls of calms,Straining the listener's shrinking ears,Like silence when thunderbolts are near.
Evermore, every hour,
Rising from hovel, hall and tower,
Swelling the strain of discontent;
Gurgled the hopeless prayer for alms,
Rung out the wild oath impotent;
Echoed by some brief walls of calms,
Straining the listener's shrinking ears,
Like silence when thunderbolts are near.
Across that calm, like gales of balm,Some low, sweet household voices came;Thrilling, like flute-notes straying outFrom land to sea, some stormy night,The ear that listens for the shoutOf drowning boatmen lost to sight—And died away, again so soonThe pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon.
Across that calm, like gales of balm,
Some low, sweet household voices came;
Thrilling, like flute-notes straying out
From land to sea, some stormy night,
The ear that listens for the shout
Of drowning boatmen lost to sight—
And died away, again so soon
The pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon.
Once pure and clear,Clarion strains fell on his ear:The preacher shook the soulless creeds,And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words,Yet failed to stir them to good deeds:Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds,Soared on the air and glanced away,Before the eloquent voice could stay.
Once pure and clear,
Clarion strains fell on his ear:
The preacher shook the soulless creeds,
And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words,
Yet failed to stir them to good deeds:
Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds,
Soared on the air and glanced away,
Before the eloquent voice could stay.
"'Tis very sad the man is mad,"The men and women gaily said;As they, laughing, thread their homeward road,Talking of other holidays;Of last year, how it rained or snowed;Who went abroad, who wed a blazeOf diamonds with his shoddy bride,On certain days—and who had died.
"'Tis very sad the man is mad,"
The men and women gaily said;
As they, laughing, thread their homeward road,
Talking of other holidays;
Of last year, how it rained or snowed;
Who went abroad, who wed a blaze
Of diamonds with his shoddy bride,
On certain days—and who had died.
"Would I were dead,And vexed no more," the Old Year said:"In vain may the preacher pray and warn;The tinkling cymbals in your earsTurn every gracious word to scorn;Ye care not for the orphan's tears;Your sides are fed, and your bodies cladIs there anything heaven itself could add?"
"Would I were dead,
And vexed no more," the Old Year said:
"In vain may the preacher pray and warn;
The tinkling cymbals in your ears
Turn every gracious word to scorn;
Ye care not for the orphan's tears;
Your sides are fed, and your bodies clad
Is there anything heaven itself could add?"
And then he sighed, as one who died,With a great wish unsatisfied;Around him like a wintry sea,Whose waves were nations, surged the world,Stormy, unstable, constantlyUpheaved to be again down-hurled;Here struggled some for freedom; hereOppression rode in the high career.
And then he sighed, as one who died,
With a great wish unsatisfied;
Around him like a wintry sea,
Whose waves were nations, surged the world,
Stormy, unstable, constantly
Upheaved to be again down-hurled;
Here struggled some for freedom; here
Oppression rode in the high career.
In hot debateMen struggled, while the hours waxed late;Contending with the watchful zealOf gladiators, trained to die;Yet not for life, nor country's weal,But that their names might hang on highAs men who loved themselves, indeed,And robbed the State to satisfy their need!
In hot debate
Men struggled, while the hours waxed late;
Contending with the watchful zeal
Of gladiators, trained to die;
Yet not for life, nor country's weal,
But that their names might hang on high
As men who loved themselves, indeed,
And robbed the State to satisfy their need!
Heads of snow, and eyes aglowWith fires that youth might blush to know;And brows whose youthful fairness shamedThe desperate thoughts that strove within;While each his cause exulting namedAs purest that the world had seen:All names they had to tickle honest ears,Reform, and Rights, and sweet Philanthropy's cares.
Heads of snow, and eyes aglow
With fires that youth might blush to know;
And brows whose youthful fairness shamed
The desperate thoughts that strove within;
While each his cause exulting named
As purest that the world had seen:
All names they had to tickle honest ears,
Reform, and Rights, and sweet Philanthropy's cares.
"Well-a-day! Well-a-day!"The Old Year strove to put awaySight and sound of the reckless earth;But soft! from out a cottage door,Sweet strains of neither grief nor mirth,Upon his dying ear did pour;"Give us, O God," the singers said,"As good a year as this one dead!"
"Well-a-day! Well-a-day!"
The Old Year strove to put away
Sight and sound of the reckless earth;
But soft! from out a cottage door,
Sweet strains of neither grief nor mirth,
Upon his dying ear did pour;
"Give us, O God," the singers said,
"As good a year as this one dead!"
Pealing loud from sod to cloud,Earth's bell's rang out in a chorus proud;Great waves of music shook the airFrom organs pulsing with the sound;Hushed was the voice of sob and prayer,As time touched the eternal bound:To the dead monarch earth was dimmed,But the golden portals brighter beamed.
Pealing loud from sod to cloud,
Earth's bell's rang out in a chorus proud;
Great waves of music shook the air
From organs pulsing with the sound;
Hushed was the voice of sob and prayer,
As time touched the eternal bound:
To the dead monarch earth was dimmed,
But the golden portals brighter beamed.
Sad no more,The Old Year reached the golden door,Just as the hours with crystal clangAside the shining portals bentAnd murmuring 'mong the spheres there rangThe chorus of earth's acknowledgment:One had passed out at the golden door,And one had gone in forevermore!
Sad no more,
The Old Year reached the golden door,
Just as the hours with crystal clang
Aside the shining portals bent
And murmuring 'mong the spheres there rang
The chorus of earth's acknowledgment:
One had passed out at the golden door,
And one had gone in forevermore!
The End