Inthe lone wilderness behold them stand,Gazing with new strange feelings on the scenesNow spread around them in a foreign clime,Far from the sea-girt home that gave them birth.They had been landed on a cheerless shore,Dreary and solitary; and the hopeThat erst had brightened all their visions, when,O’er the blue waters looming from afar,They had seen Afric’s mountains rise to view,Had nigh been quenched again. But they had leftThe barren strand, and over hill and daleHad slowly toiled to reach a place of rest,And give their children once again a home.Men roughly kind, of speech and manners strange,Had guided them; and bidding them farewell,Had left them houseless in the wilderness,Pitying, and wondering what their fate might be.Fathers and mothers, with their children round them,Stand on the green sward, while the sunny skies,Flecked with bright clouds, bend o’er them from above,And thoughts are far away o’er the wide waters.The parting scene comes back to memory’s view,—The last embrace of loved ones left behind,The fears, and hopes, and prayers of that sad hour.And now the little ones in thoughtless gleeChase the bright butterflies of this strange land,—Their new and untried home. Ah! ’twas forthemThe fathers braved the storm-tossed waters, andThe mothers hushed their own alarms to peace,When the loud tempest howled around the barkThat bore them onward o’er the surging waves.Thesegave the springs to their great enterprise,And broke the bonds that else had held them stillIn the old home circle of the Fatherland.Dark days had been in England. Darker stillSeemed coming fast, and o’er the crowded throngsOf Britain’s cities, stern adversityWas frowning. Then the cry arose,“What of ourchildren? What awaitsthemhere?Must we look on, and see their budding life,Beforeit blossoms, wither in our sight?Are there not other lands where pining wantShall cease to mock at honest industry,That asks but leave to labour? Will no starOf hope arise to point to happier climesWhere skies are notalldark? Be it to rendThe ties of kindred, we must venture forthOver the unknown seas, and seek a homeOn foreign shores, where there is room to live,And light to see a future for our children,Happy and bright whenwehave sunk to rest.”And this is now their home.’Tis lone and wild;But there is beauty in its wildness. See!Yonder are mountains; in their deep ravinesDark woods are waving, whence in noisy flightWild parrots issue forth, while loonies hideAmidst their deep recesses. Water springsSend limpid streamlets down the mountain side,Fringed with bright evergreens, and brighter flowers.Issuing from yonder dark and craggy gorge,Where lurks the stealthy leopard, and where shoutsWith loudly echoing voice the bold baboon,Kareiga winds its devious course alongBetween its willowed banks; while here and thereThe dark-leaved yellow wood lifts its proud headIn stately dignity. Along the valeThe wildwood’s sheltering covert stretches, whereThe bushbok barks; the duiker, sudden, springs;The timid bluebok through the moonlight glides;And monkey mimics chatter saucily.And there are feathered songsters in the groves;Not with the thrush’s or the blackbird’s notes,That flood Old England’s woods with melody;But short, and sharp, and ringing in their tones,Responsive to each other from afar,While telling of a life of light and joy.In the green pastures on the sunny slopes,Where the mimosa’s golden blossoms shedGales of perfume around; and fertile soilsPromise the husbandman a rich returnTo cheer him in his toil.“This is our home!A spot on earth we now can callour own;A starting-point for a new life’s career.Wake all our energies afresh! A brighter dayHas dawned at last upon us. Let us raiseA song of gratitude to Heaven,And gird us for our duties.”
Inthe lone wilderness behold them stand,Gazing with new strange feelings on the scenesNow spread around them in a foreign clime,Far from the sea-girt home that gave them birth.They had been landed on a cheerless shore,Dreary and solitary; and the hopeThat erst had brightened all their visions, when,O’er the blue waters looming from afar,They had seen Afric’s mountains rise to view,Had nigh been quenched again. But they had leftThe barren strand, and over hill and daleHad slowly toiled to reach a place of rest,And give their children once again a home.Men roughly kind, of speech and manners strange,Had guided them; and bidding them farewell,Had left them houseless in the wilderness,Pitying, and wondering what their fate might be.Fathers and mothers, with their children round them,Stand on the green sward, while the sunny skies,Flecked with bright clouds, bend o’er them from above,And thoughts are far away o’er the wide waters.The parting scene comes back to memory’s view,—The last embrace of loved ones left behind,The fears, and hopes, and prayers of that sad hour.And now the little ones in thoughtless gleeChase the bright butterflies of this strange land,—Their new and untried home. Ah! ’twas forthemThe fathers braved the storm-tossed waters, andThe mothers hushed their own alarms to peace,When the loud tempest howled around the barkThat bore them onward o’er the surging waves.Thesegave the springs to their great enterprise,And broke the bonds that else had held them stillIn the old home circle of the Fatherland.Dark days had been in England. Darker stillSeemed coming fast, and o’er the crowded throngsOf Britain’s cities, stern adversityWas frowning. Then the cry arose,“What of ourchildren? What awaitsthemhere?Must we look on, and see their budding life,Beforeit blossoms, wither in our sight?Are there not other lands where pining wantShall cease to mock at honest industry,That asks but leave to labour? Will no starOf hope arise to point to happier climesWhere skies are notalldark? Be it to rendThe ties of kindred, we must venture forthOver the unknown seas, and seek a homeOn foreign shores, where there is room to live,And light to see a future for our children,Happy and bright whenwehave sunk to rest.”And this is now their home.’Tis lone and wild;But there is beauty in its wildness. See!Yonder are mountains; in their deep ravinesDark woods are waving, whence in noisy flightWild parrots issue forth, while loonies hideAmidst their deep recesses. Water springsSend limpid streamlets down the mountain side,Fringed with bright evergreens, and brighter flowers.Issuing from yonder dark and craggy gorge,Where lurks the stealthy leopard, and where shoutsWith loudly echoing voice the bold baboon,Kareiga winds its devious course alongBetween its willowed banks; while here and thereThe dark-leaved yellow wood lifts its proud headIn stately dignity. Along the valeThe wildwood’s sheltering covert stretches, whereThe bushbok barks; the duiker, sudden, springs;The timid bluebok through the moonlight glides;And monkey mimics chatter saucily.And there are feathered songsters in the groves;Not with the thrush’s or the blackbird’s notes,That flood Old England’s woods with melody;But short, and sharp, and ringing in their tones,Responsive to each other from afar,While telling of a life of light and joy.In the green pastures on the sunny slopes,Where the mimosa’s golden blossoms shedGales of perfume around; and fertile soilsPromise the husbandman a rich returnTo cheer him in his toil.“This is our home!A spot on earth we now can callour own;A starting-point for a new life’s career.Wake all our energies afresh! A brighter dayHas dawned at last upon us. Let us raiseA song of gratitude to Heaven,And gird us for our duties.”
Inthe lone wilderness behold them stand,Gazing with new strange feelings on the scenesNow spread around them in a foreign clime,Far from the sea-girt home that gave them birth.
They had been landed on a cheerless shore,Dreary and solitary; and the hopeThat erst had brightened all their visions, when,O’er the blue waters looming from afar,They had seen Afric’s mountains rise to view,Had nigh been quenched again. But they had leftThe barren strand, and over hill and daleHad slowly toiled to reach a place of rest,And give their children once again a home.
Men roughly kind, of speech and manners strange,Had guided them; and bidding them farewell,Had left them houseless in the wilderness,Pitying, and wondering what their fate might be.Fathers and mothers, with their children round them,Stand on the green sward, while the sunny skies,Flecked with bright clouds, bend o’er them from above,And thoughts are far away o’er the wide waters.The parting scene comes back to memory’s view,—The last embrace of loved ones left behind,The fears, and hopes, and prayers of that sad hour.
And now the little ones in thoughtless gleeChase the bright butterflies of this strange land,—Their new and untried home. Ah! ’twas forthemThe fathers braved the storm-tossed waters, andThe mothers hushed their own alarms to peace,When the loud tempest howled around the barkThat bore them onward o’er the surging waves.Thesegave the springs to their great enterprise,And broke the bonds that else had held them stillIn the old home circle of the Fatherland.
Dark days had been in England. Darker stillSeemed coming fast, and o’er the crowded throngsOf Britain’s cities, stern adversityWas frowning. Then the cry arose,“What of ourchildren? What awaitsthemhere?Must we look on, and see their budding life,Beforeit blossoms, wither in our sight?Are there not other lands where pining wantShall cease to mock at honest industry,That asks but leave to labour? Will no starOf hope arise to point to happier climesWhere skies are notalldark? Be it to rendThe ties of kindred, we must venture forthOver the unknown seas, and seek a homeOn foreign shores, where there is room to live,And light to see a future for our children,Happy and bright whenwehave sunk to rest.”
And this is now their home.’Tis lone and wild;But there is beauty in its wildness. See!Yonder are mountains; in their deep ravinesDark woods are waving, whence in noisy flightWild parrots issue forth, while loonies hideAmidst their deep recesses. Water springsSend limpid streamlets down the mountain side,Fringed with bright evergreens, and brighter flowers.
Issuing from yonder dark and craggy gorge,Where lurks the stealthy leopard, and where shoutsWith loudly echoing voice the bold baboon,Kareiga winds its devious course alongBetween its willowed banks; while here and thereThe dark-leaved yellow wood lifts its proud headIn stately dignity. Along the valeThe wildwood’s sheltering covert stretches, whereThe bushbok barks; the duiker, sudden, springs;The timid bluebok through the moonlight glides;And monkey mimics chatter saucily.
And there are feathered songsters in the groves;Not with the thrush’s or the blackbird’s notes,That flood Old England’s woods with melody;But short, and sharp, and ringing in their tones,Responsive to each other from afar,While telling of a life of light and joy.
In the green pastures on the sunny slopes,Where the mimosa’s golden blossoms shedGales of perfume around; and fertile soilsPromise the husbandman a rich returnTo cheer him in his toil.“This is our home!A spot on earth we now can callour own;A starting-point for a new life’s career.Wake all our energies afresh! A brighter dayHas dawned at last upon us. Let us raiseA song of gratitude to Heaven,And gird us for our duties.”
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Overthe waters wide and deepWhere the storm-waves roll, and the storm-winds sweep,—Over the waters see them come!Breasting the billows’ curling foam,Fathers for children seeking a homeIn Afric’s Southern Wilds.Wilderness lands of brake and glen,The wolf’s and the panther’s gloomy den;—Wilderness plains where the springbok bounds,And the lion’s voice from the hill resounds,—And the vulture circles in airy rounds,Are Afric’s Southern Wilds.“Hand to the labour!—heart and hand!Our sons shall inherit an altered land:Harvests shall wave o’er the virgin soil,Cottages stand, and gardens smile,And the songs of our children the hours beguile,’Mid Afric’s Southern Wilds.“Make we the pride of the forest yield;Wrest from the wilderness field on field;And to brighten our hope, and lighten our care,And gain the aid of our Father there,Raise we to heaven the voice of prayerFrom Afric’s Southern Wilds.”. . . . . . . . . .The locust clouds have darkened heaven;The “rusted” fields to the flame are given:The war-cry is echoing wild and loud;For the war of the savage, fierce and proud,Has burst like the storm from the thunder-cloudOn Afric’s Southern Wilds.“Never despair, though the harvests fail;Though the hosts of a savage foe assail;Never despair; we shall conquer yet,And the toils of our earlier years forgetIn hope’s bright glory our sun shall set’Midst Afric’s Southern Wilds.”. . . . . . . . . .Our toilworn fathers are sinking to rest;But their children inherit their hope’s bequest.Valleys are smiling in harvest pride;There are fleecy flocks on the mountain side;Cities are rising to stud the plains;The life-blood of commerce is coursing the veinsOf a new-born Empire, that grows and reignsOver Afric’s Southern Wilds.Rev. H. H. Dugmore.April 10, 1861.
Overthe waters wide and deepWhere the storm-waves roll, and the storm-winds sweep,—Over the waters see them come!Breasting the billows’ curling foam,Fathers for children seeking a homeIn Afric’s Southern Wilds.Wilderness lands of brake and glen,The wolf’s and the panther’s gloomy den;—Wilderness plains where the springbok bounds,And the lion’s voice from the hill resounds,—And the vulture circles in airy rounds,Are Afric’s Southern Wilds.“Hand to the labour!—heart and hand!Our sons shall inherit an altered land:Harvests shall wave o’er the virgin soil,Cottages stand, and gardens smile,And the songs of our children the hours beguile,’Mid Afric’s Southern Wilds.“Make we the pride of the forest yield;Wrest from the wilderness field on field;And to brighten our hope, and lighten our care,And gain the aid of our Father there,Raise we to heaven the voice of prayerFrom Afric’s Southern Wilds.”. . . . . . . . . .The locust clouds have darkened heaven;The “rusted” fields to the flame are given:The war-cry is echoing wild and loud;For the war of the savage, fierce and proud,Has burst like the storm from the thunder-cloudOn Afric’s Southern Wilds.“Never despair, though the harvests fail;Though the hosts of a savage foe assail;Never despair; we shall conquer yet,And the toils of our earlier years forgetIn hope’s bright glory our sun shall set’Midst Afric’s Southern Wilds.”. . . . . . . . . .Our toilworn fathers are sinking to rest;But their children inherit their hope’s bequest.Valleys are smiling in harvest pride;There are fleecy flocks on the mountain side;Cities are rising to stud the plains;The life-blood of commerce is coursing the veinsOf a new-born Empire, that grows and reignsOver Afric’s Southern Wilds.Rev. H. H. Dugmore.April 10, 1861.
Overthe waters wide and deepWhere the storm-waves roll, and the storm-winds sweep,—Over the waters see them come!Breasting the billows’ curling foam,Fathers for children seeking a homeIn Afric’s Southern Wilds.
Wilderness lands of brake and glen,The wolf’s and the panther’s gloomy den;—Wilderness plains where the springbok bounds,And the lion’s voice from the hill resounds,—And the vulture circles in airy rounds,Are Afric’s Southern Wilds.
“Hand to the labour!—heart and hand!Our sons shall inherit an altered land:Harvests shall wave o’er the virgin soil,Cottages stand, and gardens smile,And the songs of our children the hours beguile,’Mid Afric’s Southern Wilds.
“Make we the pride of the forest yield;Wrest from the wilderness field on field;And to brighten our hope, and lighten our care,And gain the aid of our Father there,Raise we to heaven the voice of prayerFrom Afric’s Southern Wilds.”. . . . . . . . . .The locust clouds have darkened heaven;The “rusted” fields to the flame are given:The war-cry is echoing wild and loud;For the war of the savage, fierce and proud,Has burst like the storm from the thunder-cloudOn Afric’s Southern Wilds.
“Never despair, though the harvests fail;Though the hosts of a savage foe assail;Never despair; we shall conquer yet,And the toils of our earlier years forgetIn hope’s bright glory our sun shall set’Midst Afric’s Southern Wilds.”. . . . . . . . . .Our toilworn fathers are sinking to rest;But their children inherit their hope’s bequest.Valleys are smiling in harvest pride;There are fleecy flocks on the mountain side;Cities are rising to stud the plains;The life-blood of commerce is coursing the veinsOf a new-born Empire, that grows and reignsOver Afric’s Southern Wilds.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
April 10, 1861.
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Thewilderness! The wilderness! It stretches wide and drear,As I stand amidst its solitudes with no companion near:I watch the vulture sailing as he circles in the sky,The ostrich stalking o’er the wilds—the springbok bounding by.The wilderness! The wilderness! ’Tis where the lion roars;And whence the wasting locust-flood its living torrent pours:With rushing ruin on their wings, its myriad myriads sweep,Like waters from the mountains, or the surges of the deep.The wilderness! The wilderness! The desert blast is there;And the sun sends down his fiery rays with fierce and blinding glare.’Tis there the infant whirlwinds their new-born vigour try;And spiral columns o’er the waste rise circling to the sky.There gathering vultures’ sounding wings swoop on their hapless prey;And they clamour round their victim ere life has ebbed away.The “ringhals” rises on his coil at the startled traveller’s side;The false mirage’s wavy streams in phantom ripples glide.Strange sounds are in the wilderness: the wild dog’s plaintive wail,As he calls his fellows from afar, comes faintly on the gale.The vulture’s voice screams harshly, as he sights his prey on high;The bursting meteor echoes from the regions of the sky.A thousand insect voices, with their thousand notes are there;With chirrup, ring, or buzz of wing, they fill the sounding air;And waking fancy starts to hear the trumpet’s note afar;The pibroch’s martial gathering, the barbarian’s cry of war.But the wilderness has lessons: in danger’s lonely hour,How weak man’s solitary arm! How vain his boast of power!The humbled spirit learns to look for Heaven’s protecting care;Issafetyin the wilderness? Then God is present there.The wilderness might wean the heart from earth and earthly love;And bid the freed affections soar to happier realms above.Look now upon this barren waste, then turn thy wistful eyesTo the fields where flowers immortal bloom, beyond the starry skies.No scorching sun, no withering wind, no serpent’s tooth is there:No vulture swoop of terror; no locust-cloud of care.No faithless mocking phantom-streams the longing eyes beguile;But living fountains sparkle bright in God’s eternal smile.Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
Thewilderness! The wilderness! It stretches wide and drear,As I stand amidst its solitudes with no companion near:I watch the vulture sailing as he circles in the sky,The ostrich stalking o’er the wilds—the springbok bounding by.The wilderness! The wilderness! ’Tis where the lion roars;And whence the wasting locust-flood its living torrent pours:With rushing ruin on their wings, its myriad myriads sweep,Like waters from the mountains, or the surges of the deep.The wilderness! The wilderness! The desert blast is there;And the sun sends down his fiery rays with fierce and blinding glare.’Tis there the infant whirlwinds their new-born vigour try;And spiral columns o’er the waste rise circling to the sky.There gathering vultures’ sounding wings swoop on their hapless prey;And they clamour round their victim ere life has ebbed away.The “ringhals” rises on his coil at the startled traveller’s side;The false mirage’s wavy streams in phantom ripples glide.Strange sounds are in the wilderness: the wild dog’s plaintive wail,As he calls his fellows from afar, comes faintly on the gale.The vulture’s voice screams harshly, as he sights his prey on high;The bursting meteor echoes from the regions of the sky.A thousand insect voices, with their thousand notes are there;With chirrup, ring, or buzz of wing, they fill the sounding air;And waking fancy starts to hear the trumpet’s note afar;The pibroch’s martial gathering, the barbarian’s cry of war.But the wilderness has lessons: in danger’s lonely hour,How weak man’s solitary arm! How vain his boast of power!The humbled spirit learns to look for Heaven’s protecting care;Issafetyin the wilderness? Then God is present there.The wilderness might wean the heart from earth and earthly love;And bid the freed affections soar to happier realms above.Look now upon this barren waste, then turn thy wistful eyesTo the fields where flowers immortal bloom, beyond the starry skies.No scorching sun, no withering wind, no serpent’s tooth is there:No vulture swoop of terror; no locust-cloud of care.No faithless mocking phantom-streams the longing eyes beguile;But living fountains sparkle bright in God’s eternal smile.Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
Thewilderness! The wilderness! It stretches wide and drear,As I stand amidst its solitudes with no companion near:I watch the vulture sailing as he circles in the sky,The ostrich stalking o’er the wilds—the springbok bounding by.
The wilderness! The wilderness! ’Tis where the lion roars;And whence the wasting locust-flood its living torrent pours:With rushing ruin on their wings, its myriad myriads sweep,Like waters from the mountains, or the surges of the deep.
The wilderness! The wilderness! The desert blast is there;And the sun sends down his fiery rays with fierce and blinding glare.’Tis there the infant whirlwinds their new-born vigour try;And spiral columns o’er the waste rise circling to the sky.
There gathering vultures’ sounding wings swoop on their hapless prey;And they clamour round their victim ere life has ebbed away.The “ringhals” rises on his coil at the startled traveller’s side;The false mirage’s wavy streams in phantom ripples glide.
Strange sounds are in the wilderness: the wild dog’s plaintive wail,As he calls his fellows from afar, comes faintly on the gale.The vulture’s voice screams harshly, as he sights his prey on high;The bursting meteor echoes from the regions of the sky.
A thousand insect voices, with their thousand notes are there;With chirrup, ring, or buzz of wing, they fill the sounding air;And waking fancy starts to hear the trumpet’s note afar;The pibroch’s martial gathering, the barbarian’s cry of war.
But the wilderness has lessons: in danger’s lonely hour,How weak man’s solitary arm! How vain his boast of power!The humbled spirit learns to look for Heaven’s protecting care;Issafetyin the wilderness? Then God is present there.
The wilderness might wean the heart from earth and earthly love;And bid the freed affections soar to happier realms above.Look now upon this barren waste, then turn thy wistful eyesTo the fields where flowers immortal bloom, beyond the starry skies.
No scorching sun, no withering wind, no serpent’s tooth is there:No vulture swoop of terror; no locust-cloud of care.No faithless mocking phantom-streams the longing eyes beguile;But living fountains sparkle bright in God’s eternal smile.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
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Kingof the Golden Orient:—lo! he comesAnd mounts, magnificent, his burning throne;Smiling in glory o’er the world of waters,Whose joyous waves leap welcome to his coming.See how the streaming rays, his almoners,Fling forth his largesses in flashing brilliants.Which the waves catch, and toss from crest to crestIn dancing rapture! ’Tis a glorious sightTo see a king right welcome to his subjects;To hear the voice of gladness universalGreeting his royal smile. Not seaalone,But ocean, earth, and sky join look and voiceIn smile and song. See there in the far west,Where little cloudlets cluster, as they hangIn modest diffidence upon the outskirtsOf the vast audience-throng: they too are flushingBright with the universal joy:—and hark!Breezes are striking their Æolian harpsAmong the woods that wave along the hills;While the deep voices of the surge, far pealing,Thunder their ceaseless anthem to his praise.Brief, as befitting, is the monarch’s audience;For who may look upon the King of lightWith eye unblenching? Now in massy folds,The darkening curtains of his cloud pavilionGather around him;—and though dazzling stillTheir broad gold fringes wave, the weak eye restsFrom his transpiercing glance ofunveiledglory.Hail! glorious image of theKing of Kings!Seen or unseen, thou givest light, and life,And joy, and beauty to revolving worldsThat circle round thy throne. Centre of power!Thy mystery of might upholds, sustains,And governs as the Delegate of God,Their measured harmony of ceaseless motion;Reining their fleetness with “an arm of strength”Felt and obeyed in the far depths of space,Where roll remotest planets round their spheresIn twilight solitude, unseen, unknown.Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
Kingof the Golden Orient:—lo! he comesAnd mounts, magnificent, his burning throne;Smiling in glory o’er the world of waters,Whose joyous waves leap welcome to his coming.See how the streaming rays, his almoners,Fling forth his largesses in flashing brilliants.Which the waves catch, and toss from crest to crestIn dancing rapture! ’Tis a glorious sightTo see a king right welcome to his subjects;To hear the voice of gladness universalGreeting his royal smile. Not seaalone,But ocean, earth, and sky join look and voiceIn smile and song. See there in the far west,Where little cloudlets cluster, as they hangIn modest diffidence upon the outskirtsOf the vast audience-throng: they too are flushingBright with the universal joy:—and hark!Breezes are striking their Æolian harpsAmong the woods that wave along the hills;While the deep voices of the surge, far pealing,Thunder their ceaseless anthem to his praise.Brief, as befitting, is the monarch’s audience;For who may look upon the King of lightWith eye unblenching? Now in massy folds,The darkening curtains of his cloud pavilionGather around him;—and though dazzling stillTheir broad gold fringes wave, the weak eye restsFrom his transpiercing glance ofunveiledglory.Hail! glorious image of theKing of Kings!Seen or unseen, thou givest light, and life,And joy, and beauty to revolving worldsThat circle round thy throne. Centre of power!Thy mystery of might upholds, sustains,And governs as the Delegate of God,Their measured harmony of ceaseless motion;Reining their fleetness with “an arm of strength”Felt and obeyed in the far depths of space,Where roll remotest planets round their spheresIn twilight solitude, unseen, unknown.Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
Kingof the Golden Orient:—lo! he comesAnd mounts, magnificent, his burning throne;Smiling in glory o’er the world of waters,Whose joyous waves leap welcome to his coming.See how the streaming rays, his almoners,Fling forth his largesses in flashing brilliants.Which the waves catch, and toss from crest to crestIn dancing rapture! ’Tis a glorious sightTo see a king right welcome to his subjects;To hear the voice of gladness universalGreeting his royal smile. Not seaalone,But ocean, earth, and sky join look and voiceIn smile and song. See there in the far west,Where little cloudlets cluster, as they hangIn modest diffidence upon the outskirtsOf the vast audience-throng: they too are flushingBright with the universal joy:—and hark!Breezes are striking their Æolian harpsAmong the woods that wave along the hills;While the deep voices of the surge, far pealing,Thunder their ceaseless anthem to his praise.Brief, as befitting, is the monarch’s audience;For who may look upon the King of lightWith eye unblenching? Now in massy folds,The darkening curtains of his cloud pavilionGather around him;—and though dazzling stillTheir broad gold fringes wave, the weak eye restsFrom his transpiercing glance ofunveiledglory.Hail! glorious image of theKing of Kings!Seen or unseen, thou givest light, and life,And joy, and beauty to revolving worldsThat circle round thy throne. Centre of power!Thy mystery of might upholds, sustains,And governs as the Delegate of God,Their measured harmony of ceaseless motion;Reining their fleetness with “an arm of strength”Felt and obeyed in the far depths of space,Where roll remotest planets round their spheresIn twilight solitude, unseen, unknown.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
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’Tis sunset on the ocean! Let us gaze:—A Sabbath sunset; and all things combineTo give it peace and beauty; for the windsHave folded their broad pinions, and have sunkTo peaceful slumber on the ocean’s breast—The sportive waves, that tossed their spray erewhile,Displume their crests in reverence for the hour,And all is calm around.The curtain cloudThat hung o’er all the west throws wide its folds,And in the clear blue ether far awayBright islands of the blest seem floating, freeFrom the rough cares that fret this lower world,And radiant in a glory all divine.Are not our long-lost loved ones hov’ring there,Can we not see them wave their hands of light,As if to beckon to their bright abodes?Are not celestial harp-strings sounding? Oh!Let glad imagination spread her wings,And soar to catch the echoes of their songsEre the ethereal vision fades away.Hail to a scene that wakens thoughts like these.’Tis sweet to rise, though but onfancy’swing,And antedate communion with the blest,For Heaven isreal! May its magnet powerTouch every point of vision! till the soul,Drawn by a might resistless,centres there!
’Tis sunset on the ocean! Let us gaze:—A Sabbath sunset; and all things combineTo give it peace and beauty; for the windsHave folded their broad pinions, and have sunkTo peaceful slumber on the ocean’s breast—The sportive waves, that tossed their spray erewhile,Displume their crests in reverence for the hour,And all is calm around.The curtain cloudThat hung o’er all the west throws wide its folds,And in the clear blue ether far awayBright islands of the blest seem floating, freeFrom the rough cares that fret this lower world,And radiant in a glory all divine.Are not our long-lost loved ones hov’ring there,Can we not see them wave their hands of light,As if to beckon to their bright abodes?Are not celestial harp-strings sounding? Oh!Let glad imagination spread her wings,And soar to catch the echoes of their songsEre the ethereal vision fades away.Hail to a scene that wakens thoughts like these.’Tis sweet to rise, though but onfancy’swing,And antedate communion with the blest,For Heaven isreal! May its magnet powerTouch every point of vision! till the soul,Drawn by a might resistless,centres there!
’Tis sunset on the ocean! Let us gaze:—A Sabbath sunset; and all things combineTo give it peace and beauty; for the windsHave folded their broad pinions, and have sunkTo peaceful slumber on the ocean’s breast—The sportive waves, that tossed their spray erewhile,Displume their crests in reverence for the hour,And all is calm around.The curtain cloudThat hung o’er all the west throws wide its folds,And in the clear blue ether far awayBright islands of the blest seem floating, freeFrom the rough cares that fret this lower world,And radiant in a glory all divine.
Are not our long-lost loved ones hov’ring there,Can we not see them wave their hands of light,As if to beckon to their bright abodes?Are not celestial harp-strings sounding? Oh!Let glad imagination spread her wings,And soar to catch the echoes of their songsEre the ethereal vision fades away.
Hail to a scene that wakens thoughts like these.’Tis sweet to rise, though but onfancy’swing,And antedate communion with the blest,For Heaven isreal! May its magnet powerTouch every point of vision! till the soul,Drawn by a might resistless,centres there!
Ilookupon the ocean. Far away,A fleet of thunder-clouds is sailing by.High in mid heaven the aërial canvas swells,And proudly scorns the breeze’s proffered aid;Instinct with its own spirit’s breath of life,That bears it onward in its majesty:While ever and anon the signal flashFrom van, and rear, and centre, tells of mightResistless. Stern, and slow, and dark, and grand,Its shadows sweep o’er ocean’s heaving billows;While avant couriers, on the lightning’s wing,Herald its coming to the distant realmsBeyond the horizon’s verge.
Ilookupon the ocean. Far away,A fleet of thunder-clouds is sailing by.High in mid heaven the aërial canvas swells,And proudly scorns the breeze’s proffered aid;Instinct with its own spirit’s breath of life,That bears it onward in its majesty:While ever and anon the signal flashFrom van, and rear, and centre, tells of mightResistless. Stern, and slow, and dark, and grand,Its shadows sweep o’er ocean’s heaving billows;While avant couriers, on the lightning’s wing,Herald its coming to the distant realmsBeyond the horizon’s verge.
Ilookupon the ocean. Far away,A fleet of thunder-clouds is sailing by.High in mid heaven the aërial canvas swells,And proudly scorns the breeze’s proffered aid;Instinct with its own spirit’s breath of life,That bears it onward in its majesty:While ever and anon the signal flashFrom van, and rear, and centre, tells of mightResistless. Stern, and slow, and dark, and grand,Its shadows sweep o’er ocean’s heaving billows;While avant couriers, on the lightning’s wing,Herald its coming to the distant realmsBeyond the horizon’s verge.
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’Twaseve; but ’twas not as it oft had been,When the sun, ere he sank from the lovely scene,Had smiled in glory o’er mount and dale,And the forest gloom, and the cloudlet pale,And the verdant lawn, and the flow’ret gay,Were tinged with the gold of his parting ray.While sweet was the breath of the scented gale;While the flocks bounded foldwards along the vale,And the soberer herds from the distant plainWere wending towards home in their lengthened train.’Twas eve; but there was not the softened hueWhich the twilight oft o’er the landscape threw:I felt not the breath of the evening breeze;I saw not the wave of the forest trees;I heard not the warbler’s vesper song;—They had sunk in silence their woods among.But the landscape was wrapped in a thickening gloom,Like a funeral pall for a night of doom;For a storm frowned dark from the western sky,And the gloom deepened more as the storm drew nigh.I listened;—the music of eve was stilled;But heavy the distant thunder pealed.I looked;—I saw not the sun’s bright beam,But there was the lurid lightning’s gleam:—And they came in fury,—the lightning’s flash,And the wild wind’s sweep, and the thunder’s crash;The fire stream poured on the fear-struck sightA moment of day,—then a deeper nightSank black on all, while the forest reeled’Neath the rushing blast, and the thunder pealedThrough the echoing heaven;—in that dread hourHow puny the arm of amortal’spower!—But they passed away; the thunder’s crash,And the wild wind’s sweep, and the lightning’s flash,And the dark cloud’s gloom;—they rolled afar;While the moon’s mild beam, and the twinkling starAgain shed their light o’er the peaceful scene,And the storm was gone,—as it ne’er had been.I looked again;—the morning beamed,And the golden rays of the bright sun streamed:A richer blue in the ether mild,And a lovelier hue in the flow’ret smiled.The landscape was vested with softer green,And the dewdrops pure in their silvery sheenWere sparkling around in the morning ray,And night had melted in cloudless day.—I thought of an hour when round mysoulI had heard heaven’sjustice-thunders roll;When dark clouds gathering o’er my headWere filling a guilty heart with dread;When I feared each flash of the wrath divine,And tremblingly watched each nearing signOf a righteous anger’s rushing powerThat was making a sin-struck spirit cower.But the storm swept by;—the lightning dreadLeft all unscathed my guilty head,And the dark cloud melted as it passedIn showers of blessing, while the blastSank to the whisper of mercy’s voice,That bade the trembling soul rejoiceIn peace and pardon, light and love.—I looked;—’twas a starlit heaven above!And bright-eyed angels seemed to gazeIn smiling myriads through the rays;To watch the sinner’s heaving breast,And mark how its terrors sank to rest.And then the light of angel eyesMelted away in the brightening skies,As silent, soothing, gently stoleThe sense of pardon on the soul,Fornow’twas God’s own smile that beamed,And the rays of His mercy around me streamed;TheSunhad risen! The night was o’er;—TheSunhad risen,to set no more!
’Twaseve; but ’twas not as it oft had been,When the sun, ere he sank from the lovely scene,Had smiled in glory o’er mount and dale,And the forest gloom, and the cloudlet pale,And the verdant lawn, and the flow’ret gay,Were tinged with the gold of his parting ray.While sweet was the breath of the scented gale;While the flocks bounded foldwards along the vale,And the soberer herds from the distant plainWere wending towards home in their lengthened train.’Twas eve; but there was not the softened hueWhich the twilight oft o’er the landscape threw:I felt not the breath of the evening breeze;I saw not the wave of the forest trees;I heard not the warbler’s vesper song;—They had sunk in silence their woods among.But the landscape was wrapped in a thickening gloom,Like a funeral pall for a night of doom;For a storm frowned dark from the western sky,And the gloom deepened more as the storm drew nigh.I listened;—the music of eve was stilled;But heavy the distant thunder pealed.I looked;—I saw not the sun’s bright beam,But there was the lurid lightning’s gleam:—And they came in fury,—the lightning’s flash,And the wild wind’s sweep, and the thunder’s crash;The fire stream poured on the fear-struck sightA moment of day,—then a deeper nightSank black on all, while the forest reeled’Neath the rushing blast, and the thunder pealedThrough the echoing heaven;—in that dread hourHow puny the arm of amortal’spower!—But they passed away; the thunder’s crash,And the wild wind’s sweep, and the lightning’s flash,And the dark cloud’s gloom;—they rolled afar;While the moon’s mild beam, and the twinkling starAgain shed their light o’er the peaceful scene,And the storm was gone,—as it ne’er had been.I looked again;—the morning beamed,And the golden rays of the bright sun streamed:A richer blue in the ether mild,And a lovelier hue in the flow’ret smiled.The landscape was vested with softer green,And the dewdrops pure in their silvery sheenWere sparkling around in the morning ray,And night had melted in cloudless day.—I thought of an hour when round mysoulI had heard heaven’sjustice-thunders roll;When dark clouds gathering o’er my headWere filling a guilty heart with dread;When I feared each flash of the wrath divine,And tremblingly watched each nearing signOf a righteous anger’s rushing powerThat was making a sin-struck spirit cower.But the storm swept by;—the lightning dreadLeft all unscathed my guilty head,And the dark cloud melted as it passedIn showers of blessing, while the blastSank to the whisper of mercy’s voice,That bade the trembling soul rejoiceIn peace and pardon, light and love.—I looked;—’twas a starlit heaven above!And bright-eyed angels seemed to gazeIn smiling myriads through the rays;To watch the sinner’s heaving breast,And mark how its terrors sank to rest.And then the light of angel eyesMelted away in the brightening skies,As silent, soothing, gently stoleThe sense of pardon on the soul,Fornow’twas God’s own smile that beamed,And the rays of His mercy around me streamed;TheSunhad risen! The night was o’er;—TheSunhad risen,to set no more!
’Twaseve; but ’twas not as it oft had been,When the sun, ere he sank from the lovely scene,Had smiled in glory o’er mount and dale,And the forest gloom, and the cloudlet pale,And the verdant lawn, and the flow’ret gay,Were tinged with the gold of his parting ray.While sweet was the breath of the scented gale;While the flocks bounded foldwards along the vale,And the soberer herds from the distant plainWere wending towards home in their lengthened train.’Twas eve; but there was not the softened hueWhich the twilight oft o’er the landscape threw:I felt not the breath of the evening breeze;I saw not the wave of the forest trees;I heard not the warbler’s vesper song;—They had sunk in silence their woods among.But the landscape was wrapped in a thickening gloom,Like a funeral pall for a night of doom;For a storm frowned dark from the western sky,And the gloom deepened more as the storm drew nigh.I listened;—the music of eve was stilled;But heavy the distant thunder pealed.I looked;—I saw not the sun’s bright beam,But there was the lurid lightning’s gleam:—And they came in fury,—the lightning’s flash,And the wild wind’s sweep, and the thunder’s crash;The fire stream poured on the fear-struck sightA moment of day,—then a deeper nightSank black on all, while the forest reeled’Neath the rushing blast, and the thunder pealedThrough the echoing heaven;—in that dread hourHow puny the arm of amortal’spower!—But they passed away; the thunder’s crash,And the wild wind’s sweep, and the lightning’s flash,And the dark cloud’s gloom;—they rolled afar;While the moon’s mild beam, and the twinkling starAgain shed their light o’er the peaceful scene,And the storm was gone,—as it ne’er had been.I looked again;—the morning beamed,And the golden rays of the bright sun streamed:A richer blue in the ether mild,And a lovelier hue in the flow’ret smiled.The landscape was vested with softer green,And the dewdrops pure in their silvery sheenWere sparkling around in the morning ray,And night had melted in cloudless day.—I thought of an hour when round mysoulI had heard heaven’sjustice-thunders roll;When dark clouds gathering o’er my headWere filling a guilty heart with dread;When I feared each flash of the wrath divine,And tremblingly watched each nearing signOf a righteous anger’s rushing powerThat was making a sin-struck spirit cower.But the storm swept by;—the lightning dreadLeft all unscathed my guilty head,And the dark cloud melted as it passedIn showers of blessing, while the blastSank to the whisper of mercy’s voice,That bade the trembling soul rejoiceIn peace and pardon, light and love.—I looked;—’twas a starlit heaven above!And bright-eyed angels seemed to gazeIn smiling myriads through the rays;To watch the sinner’s heaving breast,And mark how its terrors sank to rest.And then the light of angel eyesMelted away in the brightening skies,As silent, soothing, gently stoleThe sense of pardon on the soul,Fornow’twas God’s own smile that beamed,And the rays of His mercy around me streamed;TheSunhad risen! The night was o’er;—TheSunhad risen,to set no more!
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Darknessretires, and the brightening mornSmiles as he heralds the day new born.Mists roll away from the mountain’s brow,And his head wears a circlet of sunlight now.Night’s savage prowlers to caverns glide,As seeking in darkness their deeds to hide;While, mounting majestic his radiant throne,With the glance of a monarch who reigns alone,The sun looks forth from his palace of light,And bids from his presence the gloom of night.Glittering dewdrops reflect his ray,Songsters carol on hillock and spray,The woodlands wave to the breeze’s breath,The ripple plays light o’er the lake beneath,The flocks from the fold towards the uplands bound,And the echoing hills with their voices sound:Nature unanimous joins to payA tribute of joy to the welcome day.But there’s a day of a brighter beam,For its light from a brighter sun doth stream:Sin and sorrow’s dark clouds from its brightness flyAnd thesoulgains a prospect to worlds on high.’Tis a day that dawns from the realms above,’Tis illumined by beams of eternal love:’Tis a day whose light is the smile of God,Shedding heaven-born peace in the heart abroad.The gloom of grief, and the mists of careMelt away in its radiance, while black despair,Far chased by the beams of its glory, flies,And leaves to the soul heaven’s cloudless skies.Sister, maythisbright day be thine!Around thy soul may its sunbeams shine!Be thy path in the light of its brightening rays,And its gladdening glory on “all thy ways;”Revealing from heaven thy title clear,“To mansions” of endless glory there!
Darknessretires, and the brightening mornSmiles as he heralds the day new born.Mists roll away from the mountain’s brow,And his head wears a circlet of sunlight now.Night’s savage prowlers to caverns glide,As seeking in darkness their deeds to hide;While, mounting majestic his radiant throne,With the glance of a monarch who reigns alone,The sun looks forth from his palace of light,And bids from his presence the gloom of night.Glittering dewdrops reflect his ray,Songsters carol on hillock and spray,The woodlands wave to the breeze’s breath,The ripple plays light o’er the lake beneath,The flocks from the fold towards the uplands bound,And the echoing hills with their voices sound:Nature unanimous joins to payA tribute of joy to the welcome day.But there’s a day of a brighter beam,For its light from a brighter sun doth stream:Sin and sorrow’s dark clouds from its brightness flyAnd thesoulgains a prospect to worlds on high.’Tis a day that dawns from the realms above,’Tis illumined by beams of eternal love:’Tis a day whose light is the smile of God,Shedding heaven-born peace in the heart abroad.The gloom of grief, and the mists of careMelt away in its radiance, while black despair,Far chased by the beams of its glory, flies,And leaves to the soul heaven’s cloudless skies.Sister, maythisbright day be thine!Around thy soul may its sunbeams shine!Be thy path in the light of its brightening rays,And its gladdening glory on “all thy ways;”Revealing from heaven thy title clear,“To mansions” of endless glory there!
Darknessretires, and the brightening mornSmiles as he heralds the day new born.Mists roll away from the mountain’s brow,And his head wears a circlet of sunlight now.Night’s savage prowlers to caverns glide,As seeking in darkness their deeds to hide;While, mounting majestic his radiant throne,With the glance of a monarch who reigns alone,The sun looks forth from his palace of light,And bids from his presence the gloom of night.Glittering dewdrops reflect his ray,Songsters carol on hillock and spray,The woodlands wave to the breeze’s breath,The ripple plays light o’er the lake beneath,The flocks from the fold towards the uplands bound,And the echoing hills with their voices sound:Nature unanimous joins to payA tribute of joy to the welcome day.
But there’s a day of a brighter beam,For its light from a brighter sun doth stream:Sin and sorrow’s dark clouds from its brightness flyAnd thesoulgains a prospect to worlds on high.’Tis a day that dawns from the realms above,’Tis illumined by beams of eternal love:’Tis a day whose light is the smile of God,Shedding heaven-born peace in the heart abroad.The gloom of grief, and the mists of careMelt away in its radiance, while black despair,Far chased by the beams of its glory, flies,And leaves to the soul heaven’s cloudless skies.
Sister, maythisbright day be thine!Around thy soul may its sunbeams shine!Be thy path in the light of its brightening rays,And its gladdening glory on “all thy ways;”Revealing from heaven thy title clear,“To mansions” of endless glory there!
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Ihaveseen the meteor’s transient light,As, a moment, it gilded the gloom of night;I have watched the shower of starlets brightThat bespangled its glittering way:But though dazzling the flash of its brilliant beam,It has passed away like a fading dream,And a sadder and deeper gloom would seemTo mourn for the meteor’s ray.I thought ’twas an emblem of pleasure’s powerO’er the mind of man in its mirthful hour,When the clouds of care o’er the soul that lowerTo its transient ray give room:A moment, its beams round the spirit play;—A moment, the dazzled spirit is gay;—A moment!—the meteor has passed away,And there follows a deeper gloom.
Ihaveseen the meteor’s transient light,As, a moment, it gilded the gloom of night;I have watched the shower of starlets brightThat bespangled its glittering way:But though dazzling the flash of its brilliant beam,It has passed away like a fading dream,And a sadder and deeper gloom would seemTo mourn for the meteor’s ray.I thought ’twas an emblem of pleasure’s powerO’er the mind of man in its mirthful hour,When the clouds of care o’er the soul that lowerTo its transient ray give room:A moment, its beams round the spirit play;—A moment, the dazzled spirit is gay;—A moment!—the meteor has passed away,And there follows a deeper gloom.
Ihaveseen the meteor’s transient light,As, a moment, it gilded the gloom of night;I have watched the shower of starlets brightThat bespangled its glittering way:But though dazzling the flash of its brilliant beam,It has passed away like a fading dream,And a sadder and deeper gloom would seemTo mourn for the meteor’s ray.
I thought ’twas an emblem of pleasure’s powerO’er the mind of man in its mirthful hour,When the clouds of care o’er the soul that lowerTo its transient ray give room:A moment, its beams round the spirit play;—A moment, the dazzled spirit is gay;—A moment!—the meteor has passed away,And there follows a deeper gloom.
Delicate, fragile, tiny shell,Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell.I find thee here on the ocean strand;—The billows have borne thee safe to land:Yet those billows have proved the proud ship’s grave,And have mocked the power of man to save,As its shattered fragments far and wideWere strewn on the shore by the surging tide.But thou art here, and all unharmed!Say, how hastthouits fury charmed,That its mighty waves on their foaming breastShould bearthee safeto a place of rest?The rock rears high his haughty form,And challenges proud the ocean storm;And he tosses the wild waves raging back,As his challenge provokes their fierce attack.But again, andagain, andagainthey come;And vainly the rock resists its doom:The waves are mighty, andknowtheir might:—“Neverhave we been vanquished infight!Wekissthe sands of the yielding shore,Werendthe rock in his pride of power:Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed;Be it soon, be it late,thou shalt surely yield.”—And it yields at last: with a headlong leapIt buries its shame in the foaming deep,And the waves toss high their plumy spray,As they dance triumphant around their prey.And yet, little shell, I find thee here,And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear;Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore,Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power.Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing!Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;—Aninfant’sfinger could crush thee to dust;—Whathast thou then wherein to trust?And whence thy courage and power to braveThe surging might of the wild sea wave?“I have not braved the ocean’s might;I reared no front with the waves to fight.I yielded me meek to the billow’s force,As it swept me along in its onward course.Myweaknesswas strength in the tempest’s hour,And mysafetyI found in the ocean’s power.”. . . . . . . . . .And here, if he would, mightmandiscernA truth he is “slow of heart” to learn.He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,—And his proudest plans are to fragments riven.Let him meekly yield to the sovereign swayThat even the sea’s “proud waves” obey;And though over life’s ocean tempests roar,And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,”Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast,He shall land in a haven of endless rest.1858.
Delicate, fragile, tiny shell,Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell.I find thee here on the ocean strand;—The billows have borne thee safe to land:Yet those billows have proved the proud ship’s grave,And have mocked the power of man to save,As its shattered fragments far and wideWere strewn on the shore by the surging tide.But thou art here, and all unharmed!Say, how hastthouits fury charmed,That its mighty waves on their foaming breastShould bearthee safeto a place of rest?The rock rears high his haughty form,And challenges proud the ocean storm;And he tosses the wild waves raging back,As his challenge provokes their fierce attack.But again, andagain, andagainthey come;And vainly the rock resists its doom:The waves are mighty, andknowtheir might:—“Neverhave we been vanquished infight!Wekissthe sands of the yielding shore,Werendthe rock in his pride of power:Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed;Be it soon, be it late,thou shalt surely yield.”—And it yields at last: with a headlong leapIt buries its shame in the foaming deep,And the waves toss high their plumy spray,As they dance triumphant around their prey.And yet, little shell, I find thee here,And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear;Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore,Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power.Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing!Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;—Aninfant’sfinger could crush thee to dust;—Whathast thou then wherein to trust?And whence thy courage and power to braveThe surging might of the wild sea wave?“I have not braved the ocean’s might;I reared no front with the waves to fight.I yielded me meek to the billow’s force,As it swept me along in its onward course.Myweaknesswas strength in the tempest’s hour,And mysafetyI found in the ocean’s power.”. . . . . . . . . .And here, if he would, mightmandiscernA truth he is “slow of heart” to learn.He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,—And his proudest plans are to fragments riven.Let him meekly yield to the sovereign swayThat even the sea’s “proud waves” obey;And though over life’s ocean tempests roar,And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,”Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast,He shall land in a haven of endless rest.1858.
Delicate, fragile, tiny shell,Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell.I find thee here on the ocean strand;—The billows have borne thee safe to land:Yet those billows have proved the proud ship’s grave,And have mocked the power of man to save,As its shattered fragments far and wideWere strewn on the shore by the surging tide.But thou art here, and all unharmed!Say, how hastthouits fury charmed,That its mighty waves on their foaming breastShould bearthee safeto a place of rest?
The rock rears high his haughty form,And challenges proud the ocean storm;And he tosses the wild waves raging back,As his challenge provokes their fierce attack.But again, andagain, andagainthey come;And vainly the rock resists its doom:The waves are mighty, andknowtheir might:—“Neverhave we been vanquished infight!Wekissthe sands of the yielding shore,Werendthe rock in his pride of power:Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed;Be it soon, be it late,thou shalt surely yield.”—And it yields at last: with a headlong leapIt buries its shame in the foaming deep,And the waves toss high their plumy spray,As they dance triumphant around their prey.
And yet, little shell, I find thee here,And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear;Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore,Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power.Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing!Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;—Aninfant’sfinger could crush thee to dust;—Whathast thou then wherein to trust?And whence thy courage and power to braveThe surging might of the wild sea wave?“I have not braved the ocean’s might;I reared no front with the waves to fight.I yielded me meek to the billow’s force,As it swept me along in its onward course.Myweaknesswas strength in the tempest’s hour,And mysafetyI found in the ocean’s power.”. . . . . . . . . .And here, if he would, mightmandiscernA truth he is “slow of heart” to learn.He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,—And his proudest plans are to fragments riven.Let him meekly yield to the sovereign swayThat even the sea’s “proud waves” obey;And though over life’s ocean tempests roar,And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,”Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast,He shall land in a haven of endless rest.
1858.
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Away! Away! Away!There are patriot voices calling!Glen Lynden’s bandHolds the foe in hand,Though its watch-worn sons are falling.Away to the mountain glen!Where the warwhoop wild is yelling,And the savage howlsAs he darkly scowlsOn the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling.There is life-blood reeking there!Where our slaughtered friends are lying;Not boldly slainOn the battle-plain,But each by his hearth-stone dying.Away Away! Away!To horse, to rifle springing,While the widow’s sighAnd the orphan’s cryIn our ears,—in ourheartsare ringing!They were dwelling in peaceful vales,Nor fear nor danger knowing;’Midst their flocks spread wideO’er the mountain side,And milk and honey flowing.The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;—The cornfields waving gladness,The shearer’s throng,And the reaper’s songLeft cause nor room for sadness.There was childhood’s guileless glee,—There was maiden beauty blooming;There was ripe old age,With its wisdom sage,And its honour,—life perfuming.And there were thankful heartsFor peace and plenty given;The voice of prayerAscended thereAnd the song of praise to heaven.And where are theynow?—Ah! where?There are homeless orphans weeping;The widow’s wailIs on the gale,The sire in his gore lies sleeping.. . . . . . . . . .And are there dastard souls,Whose homes these homes were shielding,Who can coldly readWhile their brothers bleed,Nor aid nor pity yielding?Brand “Coward” on his brow!Write “Traitor” on his bearing,Who views from afarOur “homestead” war,And basely shrinks from sharing!To your arms! To your arms! Away!What!ceasefrom the strife?—No, never!Till the neck of the foe,To earth bent low,We haveconquereda peaceFOR EVER!Rev. H. H. Dugmore.1851.
Away! Away! Away!There are patriot voices calling!Glen Lynden’s bandHolds the foe in hand,Though its watch-worn sons are falling.Away to the mountain glen!Where the warwhoop wild is yelling,And the savage howlsAs he darkly scowlsOn the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling.There is life-blood reeking there!Where our slaughtered friends are lying;Not boldly slainOn the battle-plain,But each by his hearth-stone dying.Away Away! Away!To horse, to rifle springing,While the widow’s sighAnd the orphan’s cryIn our ears,—in ourheartsare ringing!They were dwelling in peaceful vales,Nor fear nor danger knowing;’Midst their flocks spread wideO’er the mountain side,And milk and honey flowing.The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;—The cornfields waving gladness,The shearer’s throng,And the reaper’s songLeft cause nor room for sadness.There was childhood’s guileless glee,—There was maiden beauty blooming;There was ripe old age,With its wisdom sage,And its honour,—life perfuming.And there were thankful heartsFor peace and plenty given;The voice of prayerAscended thereAnd the song of praise to heaven.And where are theynow?—Ah! where?There are homeless orphans weeping;The widow’s wailIs on the gale,The sire in his gore lies sleeping.. . . . . . . . . .And are there dastard souls,Whose homes these homes were shielding,Who can coldly readWhile their brothers bleed,Nor aid nor pity yielding?Brand “Coward” on his brow!Write “Traitor” on his bearing,Who views from afarOur “homestead” war,And basely shrinks from sharing!To your arms! To your arms! Away!What!ceasefrom the strife?—No, never!Till the neck of the foe,To earth bent low,We haveconquereda peaceFOR EVER!Rev. H. H. Dugmore.1851.
Away! Away! Away!There are patriot voices calling!Glen Lynden’s bandHolds the foe in hand,Though its watch-worn sons are falling.
Away to the mountain glen!Where the warwhoop wild is yelling,And the savage howlsAs he darkly scowlsOn the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling.
There is life-blood reeking there!Where our slaughtered friends are lying;Not boldly slainOn the battle-plain,But each by his hearth-stone dying.
Away Away! Away!To horse, to rifle springing,While the widow’s sighAnd the orphan’s cryIn our ears,—in ourheartsare ringing!
They were dwelling in peaceful vales,Nor fear nor danger knowing;’Midst their flocks spread wideO’er the mountain side,And milk and honey flowing.
The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;—The cornfields waving gladness,The shearer’s throng,And the reaper’s songLeft cause nor room for sadness.
There was childhood’s guileless glee,—There was maiden beauty blooming;There was ripe old age,With its wisdom sage,And its honour,—life perfuming.
And there were thankful heartsFor peace and plenty given;The voice of prayerAscended thereAnd the song of praise to heaven.
And where are theynow?—Ah! where?There are homeless orphans weeping;The widow’s wailIs on the gale,The sire in his gore lies sleeping.. . . . . . . . . .And are there dastard souls,Whose homes these homes were shielding,Who can coldly readWhile their brothers bleed,Nor aid nor pity yielding?
Brand “Coward” on his brow!Write “Traitor” on his bearing,Who views from afarOur “homestead” war,And basely shrinks from sharing!
To your arms! To your arms! Away!What!ceasefrom the strife?—No, never!Till the neck of the foe,To earth bent low,We haveconquereda peaceFOR EVER!
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
1851.
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“Preserve thecolours,Melville!Westandhere;And—to theend.” ’Twas thus thatPulleinespoke,OnIsandlana’sdark and fatal day;Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words,Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:—The camp stormedBy overwhelming myriads, and the yellsOf savage victors ringing in his earsDemon-like, while they drowned the dying groansOf hundreds, sinking low beneath the strokeOf the blood-reeking Zulu assegai;O’erwhelmed, butnotdishonoured.They had foughtAs British soldiers fight,—tens against thousands,—Till the last charge was spent; and then,—“cold steel”Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heapsTheir dying foes lay round them.—’Twas in vain!Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire;Yet, heedless of their fall, hadthousandsmoreRecklessly trampled them in onward rush,And wild contempt of death.As the surf breaksAnd strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave,Blind to its leader’s fate,—the Zulu hostRolls its dark waves,—itsdead, as yet, unmissed,With thousands in reserve to fill their place.Man after man the British soldier falls,—Falls where he stood,—his right arm’s strength exhausted,And hisdeadfoes hurled on his bayonet’s point,To clear the way for others!PulleinesawHis own end near,—and gave his dying charge:—“Preserve theCOLOURS! Let no savage handsStain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’Comedeath,—if come it must, butnotdisgrace!”AndMelvilletook theCOLOUR,—sacred trust!And bore it from the field.One farewell grasp,One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part,Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more.“Men of the 24th.Istay withyou;—We bide it to the end.”—A ringing cheerShows the old fire unquenched; and though no hopeOf succour nerves their arm, they face the foe,Till men and their commander sink together,And join in death their comrades gone before.. . . . . . . . . .The fight is done:—the cannon’s boom is stilled;Stilled is the rocket’s rush,—the rifle’s ring.The yell of onslaught,—the defying cheer,—Wails of the wounded, and the dying groanRise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieksOf hapless followers of the camp, unarmed,And slaughtered in their helplessness.—The spoilsIn savage triumph proudly borne awayWith battle song of victory, upraisedBy myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills,Are passing from the scene. The hush of deathHas settled all around; and gloomy nightSpreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field.But where isMelville? How shallheescape?Leagues must he traverse of a hostile landEre he can safely place his sacred trust.And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight,“Native Contingents” from the field of deathUrge their fear-stricken way with failing strength;While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them downOn every side. “Where? where ishe? the guardianOf his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say?For, be it that he fights his way alone—Horseman or footman, through the host of foes—Or be it he evades their hot pursuit,There crosses still his path, and bars his way,The river boundary in summer flood,The swirling waters as they rush and roar,Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks,And canno more, although the foe is on them!Numbers die here; numbers plunge in—and drown.Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall?Or has he dared the river with his charge?Grasping theCOLOUR, could he breast the flood?Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows.Explore the river! search its wooded banks;—Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches,May yieldsomerelic of the lost one,—Ah!Who lieshere?Melville!—And who lieshere?CoghillwithMelville, side by side indeath!Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered:Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond:Slain in a mutual, last attempt to saveFrom the wild watersthat—thanLIFEmore dear.Hard, hard the fate—wrecked when the port was gained!Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains,By hasty cairn—and breathe a hurried prayer—’Tis all we can—till worthier rites be paid—But hark! that shout! “TheColour! lo! theColour!”Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn,ButSAVED! by friendly branches caught and held.Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer;And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring.They are not “24th” men who have foundThe prize and its dead guardians:—What of that?They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feelThe joy of brother soldiers as their own.Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft,The sacred emblem challenges from farThe eager outlook—Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen!The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, andThere bursts the shout exultant from his lips.The spark electric sets the camp on fire;“TheColour! lo! theColour!Honour saved!”Rush from all sides the eager throng to greetAnd welcome—while with cheers the camp resounds.And now once more in martial order standsThe remnant of the regiment, to receiveAnd place in its old shrine the rescued treasure.A guard of honour from the reverent handsOf those who bear it take the precious pledge—More precious for its perils—and it rests—Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.MelvilleandCoghill! twins in death—your namesBelong to history! On Fame’s bright scrollThey stand already blazoned. Men from farShall visit as a shrine your hero grave;And grey-haired veterans in after yearsShall tell their children how, long, long ago,AtIsandlana’sdeadly, woe-fraught fight,Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,”AndDIED IN SAVING IT!Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
“Preserve thecolours,Melville!Westandhere;And—to theend.” ’Twas thus thatPulleinespoke,OnIsandlana’sdark and fatal day;Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words,Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:—The camp stormedBy overwhelming myriads, and the yellsOf savage victors ringing in his earsDemon-like, while they drowned the dying groansOf hundreds, sinking low beneath the strokeOf the blood-reeking Zulu assegai;O’erwhelmed, butnotdishonoured.They had foughtAs British soldiers fight,—tens against thousands,—Till the last charge was spent; and then,—“cold steel”Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heapsTheir dying foes lay round them.—’Twas in vain!Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire;Yet, heedless of their fall, hadthousandsmoreRecklessly trampled them in onward rush,And wild contempt of death.As the surf breaksAnd strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave,Blind to its leader’s fate,—the Zulu hostRolls its dark waves,—itsdead, as yet, unmissed,With thousands in reserve to fill their place.Man after man the British soldier falls,—Falls where he stood,—his right arm’s strength exhausted,And hisdeadfoes hurled on his bayonet’s point,To clear the way for others!PulleinesawHis own end near,—and gave his dying charge:—“Preserve theCOLOURS! Let no savage handsStain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’Comedeath,—if come it must, butnotdisgrace!”AndMelvilletook theCOLOUR,—sacred trust!And bore it from the field.One farewell grasp,One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part,Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more.“Men of the 24th.Istay withyou;—We bide it to the end.”—A ringing cheerShows the old fire unquenched; and though no hopeOf succour nerves their arm, they face the foe,Till men and their commander sink together,And join in death their comrades gone before.. . . . . . . . . .The fight is done:—the cannon’s boom is stilled;Stilled is the rocket’s rush,—the rifle’s ring.The yell of onslaught,—the defying cheer,—Wails of the wounded, and the dying groanRise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieksOf hapless followers of the camp, unarmed,And slaughtered in their helplessness.—The spoilsIn savage triumph proudly borne awayWith battle song of victory, upraisedBy myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills,Are passing from the scene. The hush of deathHas settled all around; and gloomy nightSpreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field.But where isMelville? How shallheescape?Leagues must he traverse of a hostile landEre he can safely place his sacred trust.And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight,“Native Contingents” from the field of deathUrge their fear-stricken way with failing strength;While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them downOn every side. “Where? where ishe? the guardianOf his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say?For, be it that he fights his way alone—Horseman or footman, through the host of foes—Or be it he evades their hot pursuit,There crosses still his path, and bars his way,The river boundary in summer flood,The swirling waters as they rush and roar,Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks,And canno more, although the foe is on them!Numbers die here; numbers plunge in—and drown.Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall?Or has he dared the river with his charge?Grasping theCOLOUR, could he breast the flood?Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows.Explore the river! search its wooded banks;—Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches,May yieldsomerelic of the lost one,—Ah!Who lieshere?Melville!—And who lieshere?CoghillwithMelville, side by side indeath!Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered:Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond:Slain in a mutual, last attempt to saveFrom the wild watersthat—thanLIFEmore dear.Hard, hard the fate—wrecked when the port was gained!Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains,By hasty cairn—and breathe a hurried prayer—’Tis all we can—till worthier rites be paid—But hark! that shout! “TheColour! lo! theColour!”Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn,ButSAVED! by friendly branches caught and held.Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer;And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring.They are not “24th” men who have foundThe prize and its dead guardians:—What of that?They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feelThe joy of brother soldiers as their own.Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft,The sacred emblem challenges from farThe eager outlook—Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen!The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, andThere bursts the shout exultant from his lips.The spark electric sets the camp on fire;“TheColour! lo! theColour!Honour saved!”Rush from all sides the eager throng to greetAnd welcome—while with cheers the camp resounds.And now once more in martial order standsThe remnant of the regiment, to receiveAnd place in its old shrine the rescued treasure.A guard of honour from the reverent handsOf those who bear it take the precious pledge—More precious for its perils—and it rests—Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.MelvilleandCoghill! twins in death—your namesBelong to history! On Fame’s bright scrollThey stand already blazoned. Men from farShall visit as a shrine your hero grave;And grey-haired veterans in after yearsShall tell their children how, long, long ago,AtIsandlana’sdeadly, woe-fraught fight,Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,”AndDIED IN SAVING IT!Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
“Preserve thecolours,Melville!Westandhere;And—to theend.” ’Twas thus thatPulleinespoke,OnIsandlana’sdark and fatal day;Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words,Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:—The camp stormedBy overwhelming myriads, and the yellsOf savage victors ringing in his earsDemon-like, while they drowned the dying groansOf hundreds, sinking low beneath the strokeOf the blood-reeking Zulu assegai;O’erwhelmed, butnotdishonoured.They had foughtAs British soldiers fight,—tens against thousands,—Till the last charge was spent; and then,—“cold steel”Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heapsTheir dying foes lay round them.—’Twas in vain!Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire;Yet, heedless of their fall, hadthousandsmoreRecklessly trampled them in onward rush,And wild contempt of death.As the surf breaksAnd strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave,Blind to its leader’s fate,—the Zulu hostRolls its dark waves,—itsdead, as yet, unmissed,With thousands in reserve to fill their place.Man after man the British soldier falls,—Falls where he stood,—his right arm’s strength exhausted,And hisdeadfoes hurled on his bayonet’s point,To clear the way for others!PulleinesawHis own end near,—and gave his dying charge:—“Preserve theCOLOURS! Let no savage handsStain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’Comedeath,—if come it must, butnotdisgrace!”AndMelvilletook theCOLOUR,—sacred trust!And bore it from the field.One farewell grasp,One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part,Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more.“Men of the 24th.Istay withyou;—We bide it to the end.”—A ringing cheerShows the old fire unquenched; and though no hopeOf succour nerves their arm, they face the foe,Till men and their commander sink together,And join in death their comrades gone before.. . . . . . . . . .The fight is done:—the cannon’s boom is stilled;Stilled is the rocket’s rush,—the rifle’s ring.The yell of onslaught,—the defying cheer,—Wails of the wounded, and the dying groanRise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieksOf hapless followers of the camp, unarmed,And slaughtered in their helplessness.—The spoilsIn savage triumph proudly borne awayWith battle song of victory, upraisedBy myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills,Are passing from the scene. The hush of deathHas settled all around; and gloomy nightSpreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field.But where isMelville? How shallheescape?Leagues must he traverse of a hostile landEre he can safely place his sacred trust.And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight,“Native Contingents” from the field of deathUrge their fear-stricken way with failing strength;While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them downOn every side. “Where? where ishe? the guardianOf his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say?For, be it that he fights his way alone—Horseman or footman, through the host of foes—Or be it he evades their hot pursuit,There crosses still his path, and bars his way,The river boundary in summer flood,The swirling waters as they rush and roar,Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks,And canno more, although the foe is on them!Numbers die here; numbers plunge in—and drown.Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall?Or has he dared the river with his charge?Grasping theCOLOUR, could he breast the flood?Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows.Explore the river! search its wooded banks;—Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches,May yieldsomerelic of the lost one,—Ah!Who lieshere?Melville!—And who lieshere?CoghillwithMelville, side by side indeath!Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered:Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond:Slain in a mutual, last attempt to saveFrom the wild watersthat—thanLIFEmore dear.Hard, hard the fate—wrecked when the port was gained!Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains,By hasty cairn—and breathe a hurried prayer—’Tis all we can—till worthier rites be paid—But hark! that shout! “TheColour! lo! theColour!”Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn,ButSAVED! by friendly branches caught and held.Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer;And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring.They are not “24th” men who have foundThe prize and its dead guardians:—What of that?They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feelThe joy of brother soldiers as their own.Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft,The sacred emblem challenges from farThe eager outlook—Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen!The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, andThere bursts the shout exultant from his lips.The spark electric sets the camp on fire;“TheColour! lo! theColour!Honour saved!”Rush from all sides the eager throng to greetAnd welcome—while with cheers the camp resounds.And now once more in martial order standsThe remnant of the regiment, to receiveAnd place in its old shrine the rescued treasure.A guard of honour from the reverent handsOf those who bear it take the precious pledge—More precious for its perils—and it rests—Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.
MelvilleandCoghill! twins in death—your namesBelong to history! On Fame’s bright scrollThey stand already blazoned. Men from farShall visit as a shrine your hero grave;And grey-haired veterans in after yearsShall tell their children how, long, long ago,AtIsandlana’sdeadly, woe-fraught fight,Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,”AndDIED IN SAVING IT!
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]