In the old days (a custom laid asideWith breeches and cocked hats) the people sentTheir wisest men to make the public laws.And so, from a brown homestead, where the SoundDrinks the small tribute of the Mianas,Waved over by the woods of Rippowams,And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,Stamford sent up to the councils of the StateWisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.
'T was on a May-day of the far old yearSeventeen hundred eighty, that there fellOver the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,A horror of great darkness, like the nightIn day of which the Norland sagas tell,—
The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung skyWas black with ominous clouds, save where its rimWas fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbsThe crater's sides from the red hell below.Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowlsRoosted; the cattle at the pasture barsLowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wingsFlitted abroad; the sounds of labor died;Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharpTo hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatterThe black sky, that the dreadful face of ChristMight look from the rent clouds, not as he lookedA loving guest at Bethany, but sternAs Justice and inexorable Law.
Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,Trembling beneath their legislative robes."It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,"Some said; and then, as if with one accord,All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voiceThe intolerable hush. "This well may beThe Day of Judgment which the world awaits;But be it so or not, I only knowMy present duty, and my Lord's commandTo occupy till He come. So at the postWhere He hath set me in His providence,I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,—No faithless servant frightened from my task,But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls;And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,Let God do His work, we will see to ours.Bring in the candles." And they brought them in.
Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read,Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands,An act to amend an act to regulateThe shad and alewive fisheries. WhereuponWisely and well spake Abraham Davenport,Straight to the question, with no figures of speechSave the ten Arab signs, yet not withoutThe shrewd dry humor natural to the manHis awe-struck colleagues listening all the while,Between the pauses of his argument,To hear the thunder of the wrath of GodBreak from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.
And there he stands in memory to this day,Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seenAgainst the background of unnatural dark,A witness to the ages as they pass,That simple duty hath no place for fear.1866.
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He ceased: just then the ocean seemedTo lift a half-faced moon in sight;And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed,From crest to crest, a line of light,Such as of old, with solemn awe,The fishers by Gennesaret saw,When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God,Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals trod.
Silently for a space each eyeUpon that sudden glory turnedCool from the land the breeze blew by,The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churnedIts waves to foam; on either handStretched, far as sight, the hills of sand;With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree,The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the meadowy sea.
The lady rose to leave. "One song,Or hymn," they urged, "before we part."And she, with lips to which belongSweet intuitions of all art,Gave to the winds of night a strainWhich they who heard would hear again;And to her voice the solemn ocean lent,Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.
The harp at Nature's advent strungHas never ceased to play;The song the stars of morning sungHas never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,By all things near and far;The ocean looketh up to heaven,And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand,As kneels the human knee,Their white locks bowing to the sand,The priesthood of the sea'
They pour their glittering treasures forth,Their gifts of pearl they bring,And all the listening hills of earthTake up the song they sing.
The green earth sends her incense upFrom many a mountain shrine;From folded leaf and dewy cupShe pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rillsRise white as wings of prayer;The altar-curtains of the hillsAre sunset's purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud,Or low with sobs of pain,—The thunder-organ of the cloud,The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossedThe twilight forest grieves,Or speaks with tongues of PentecostFrom all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple's arch,Its transept earth and air,The music of its starry marchThe chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frameWith which her years began,And all her signs and voices shameThe prayerless heart of man.
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The singer ceased. The moon's white raysFell on the rapt, still face of her."Allah il Allah! He hath praiseFrom all things," said the Traveller."Oft from the desert's silent nights,And mountain hymns of sunset lights,My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tentThe Moslem's prayer has shamed my Christian knee unbent."
He paused, and lo! far, faint, and slowThe bells in Newbury's steeples tolledThe twelve dead hours; the lamp burned low;The singer sought her canvas fold.One sadly said, "At break of dayWe strike our tent and go our way."But one made answer cheerily, "Never fear,We'll pitch this tent of ours in type another year."