The flowers lie faded on his mound,The rose and lily are decayed;The stam’ring words of praise, we said,Did vanish almost with their sound.The throng that stood around his bier,Is scattered in accustomed ways;And now and then a neighbor says:“This was the saddest of the year.”Alas, if this was all we gave;Then were our eulogies a shame;Unworthy of his noble name,A mockery around his grave.
The flowers lie faded on his mound,The rose and lily are decayed;The stam’ring words of praise, we said,Did vanish almost with their sound.The throng that stood around his bier,Is scattered in accustomed ways;And now and then a neighbor says:“This was the saddest of the year.”Alas, if this was all we gave;Then were our eulogies a shame;Unworthy of his noble name,A mockery around his grave.
The flowers lie faded on his mound,The rose and lily are decayed;The stam’ring words of praise, we said,Did vanish almost with their sound.
The throng that stood around his bier,Is scattered in accustomed ways;And now and then a neighbor says:“This was the saddest of the year.”
Alas, if this was all we gave;Then were our eulogies a shame;Unworthy of his noble name,A mockery around his grave.
A month has passed, and April showersHave come and gone upon the scene;The fields are turning deeper green,And leaves are growing into bowers.The butter-cup and violetAppear among old leaves and grass,The Iris stands where runnels passInto the larger rivulet.The meadow-lark sings in the fields,The thrush chants in the willow-hedge,And mid the marsh and from the sedgeThe blackbirds merry music peals.Thus spring has conquered winter’s gloomThe spring, we hoped would give him strength,Its life increase his journey’s length,Even though a little from the tomb.
A month has passed, and April showersHave come and gone upon the scene;The fields are turning deeper green,And leaves are growing into bowers.The butter-cup and violetAppear among old leaves and grass,The Iris stands where runnels passInto the larger rivulet.The meadow-lark sings in the fields,The thrush chants in the willow-hedge,And mid the marsh and from the sedgeThe blackbirds merry music peals.Thus spring has conquered winter’s gloomThe spring, we hoped would give him strength,Its life increase his journey’s length,Even though a little from the tomb.
A month has passed, and April showersHave come and gone upon the scene;The fields are turning deeper green,And leaves are growing into bowers.
The butter-cup and violetAppear among old leaves and grass,The Iris stands where runnels passInto the larger rivulet.
The meadow-lark sings in the fields,The thrush chants in the willow-hedge,And mid the marsh and from the sedgeThe blackbirds merry music peals.
Thus spring has conquered winter’s gloomThe spring, we hoped would give him strength,Its life increase his journey’s length,Even though a little from the tomb.
But in our heart something beginsTo stir, and grow, and take a shape,It flings away the dismal crape,And o’er our lamentation wins.It is a flower of rarest hue,Belonging to Eternity,—The blossom of the memoryOf what in him was good and true.With this we will his grave adorn,In summer-sun and winter’s frost,Its beauty never shall be lost,But growing brighter with each morn.
But in our heart something beginsTo stir, and grow, and take a shape,It flings away the dismal crape,And o’er our lamentation wins.It is a flower of rarest hue,Belonging to Eternity,—The blossom of the memoryOf what in him was good and true.With this we will his grave adorn,In summer-sun and winter’s frost,Its beauty never shall be lost,But growing brighter with each morn.
But in our heart something beginsTo stir, and grow, and take a shape,It flings away the dismal crape,And o’er our lamentation wins.
It is a flower of rarest hue,Belonging to Eternity,—The blossom of the memoryOf what in him was good and true.
With this we will his grave adorn,In summer-sun and winter’s frost,Its beauty never shall be lost,But growing brighter with each morn.
’Tis evening, and the clouds hang low,The rain has fall’n the livelong day,But in the west there is a ray,A gentle gleam of evening-glow.Down are the curtains and the shades,Where hearts in silence weep and brood,They nature’s sadness may exclude,But also that one gleam—which fades.I would that she might see it now,That which was once her soul’s delight,That it could meet her tearful sight,From o’er the verdant hillock’s brow.It would, indeed, be rude to say,To those around the cheerless hearth,“Arise, and smile, let grief depart,Forget the clouds which gloomed the day.”For sorrow, like a swollen stream,Must have its course, or break its bounds,And oft its bitterness redoundsTo joy, of which we did not dream.But that sweet sunset seems to say,“He was a good man, and a just,“You best can honor him by trust“In Him who leads us day by day.”
’Tis evening, and the clouds hang low,The rain has fall’n the livelong day,But in the west there is a ray,A gentle gleam of evening-glow.Down are the curtains and the shades,Where hearts in silence weep and brood,They nature’s sadness may exclude,But also that one gleam—which fades.I would that she might see it now,That which was once her soul’s delight,That it could meet her tearful sight,From o’er the verdant hillock’s brow.It would, indeed, be rude to say,To those around the cheerless hearth,“Arise, and smile, let grief depart,Forget the clouds which gloomed the day.”For sorrow, like a swollen stream,Must have its course, or break its bounds,And oft its bitterness redoundsTo joy, of which we did not dream.But that sweet sunset seems to say,“He was a good man, and a just,“You best can honor him by trust“In Him who leads us day by day.”
’Tis evening, and the clouds hang low,The rain has fall’n the livelong day,But in the west there is a ray,A gentle gleam of evening-glow.
Down are the curtains and the shades,Where hearts in silence weep and brood,They nature’s sadness may exclude,But also that one gleam—which fades.
I would that she might see it now,That which was once her soul’s delight,That it could meet her tearful sight,From o’er the verdant hillock’s brow.
It would, indeed, be rude to say,To those around the cheerless hearth,“Arise, and smile, let grief depart,Forget the clouds which gloomed the day.”
For sorrow, like a swollen stream,Must have its course, or break its bounds,And oft its bitterness redoundsTo joy, of which we did not dream.
But that sweet sunset seems to say,“He was a good man, and a just,“You best can honor him by trust“In Him who leads us day by day.”
The maple and the apple-trees,Around his home, are blossoming,There is the hum of insects’ wings,The droning of the honey-bees.This is the season, he loved best,—To labor in his garden-plot,To prune the trees that flourished not,—This was to him a pleasant rest.For he from youth was nature’s child,He loved unfeigned simplicity,He found it in the field and tree,In bird and beast, the tame and wild.He found it in the “common” folk,He loved them, they loved him again,He was the poor and needy’s friend,His feeding tramps became a joke.For it is told, both near and far,How he the tramp led to his board,To all the best it could afford,Then offered him a choice cigar.Forgive a smile amid the tear,The simple hearts will understand,And bless the kind, unstinted hand,Which gave to them new hope and cheer.The apple trees send out their sweet,The purple pomp of maples droop,They stand alone, they stand in group,And wait in vain their lord to greet.
The maple and the apple-trees,Around his home, are blossoming,There is the hum of insects’ wings,The droning of the honey-bees.This is the season, he loved best,—To labor in his garden-plot,To prune the trees that flourished not,—This was to him a pleasant rest.For he from youth was nature’s child,He loved unfeigned simplicity,He found it in the field and tree,In bird and beast, the tame and wild.He found it in the “common” folk,He loved them, they loved him again,He was the poor and needy’s friend,His feeding tramps became a joke.For it is told, both near and far,How he the tramp led to his board,To all the best it could afford,Then offered him a choice cigar.Forgive a smile amid the tear,The simple hearts will understand,And bless the kind, unstinted hand,Which gave to them new hope and cheer.The apple trees send out their sweet,The purple pomp of maples droop,They stand alone, they stand in group,And wait in vain their lord to greet.
The maple and the apple-trees,Around his home, are blossoming,There is the hum of insects’ wings,The droning of the honey-bees.
This is the season, he loved best,—To labor in his garden-plot,To prune the trees that flourished not,—This was to him a pleasant rest.
For he from youth was nature’s child,He loved unfeigned simplicity,He found it in the field and tree,In bird and beast, the tame and wild.
He found it in the “common” folk,He loved them, they loved him again,He was the poor and needy’s friend,His feeding tramps became a joke.
For it is told, both near and far,How he the tramp led to his board,To all the best it could afford,Then offered him a choice cigar.
Forgive a smile amid the tear,The simple hearts will understand,And bless the kind, unstinted hand,Which gave to them new hope and cheer.
The apple trees send out their sweet,The purple pomp of maples droop,They stand alone, they stand in group,And wait in vain their lord to greet.
The morning lifts its saffron veil,And smiles with happiness replete,With Sabbath peace it doth us greet,And with the risen Lord’s “All Hail!”It mingles with the mellow soundOf church bells calling man to prayer,It falls upon the altar-stair,Where souls disconsolate are found.No more along the aisles shall moveHis stately figure, cloth in black,On days when other folk seemed slackIn the expression of their love.Not to repeat a senseless creed,Did he the house of God attend,But none like he his ear did lend,To truth of heart and human need.He was a seeker after truth,Pursuing it on flights of thought,His mind to keenness had been wroughtBy constant study, even from youth.He loved the truth in thought and life,He hated sham and cunning cant,And had a scornful smile for rant,Whose purpose was to gender strife.The Protestant and CatholicHe judged alike from human view,Both were his friends, if only true,The false alone a heretic.No honest Faith he e’er did scorn,But saw the human heart in all,The upward reaching of the soul,The waiting for a better morn.Though he with Burns did sometimes laughWhile reading “Holy Willie’s Prayer,”Or satires, like the “Holy Fair,”Or “Holy Willie’s Epitaph.”For when we cease to fear and dreadThe phantoms of a darker age,We read them like a comic page,And smile to think that they are dead.The darkness from man’s faith cast out,And truth and love alone its good,Then he shall know that brotherhood,God’s greatest prophets speak about.Then man the Father’s heart shall know,The “larger Hope” and nobler meed,Then shall his life be one grand creed,The measure of what he doth trow.Was this his faith? He never told,Except in modest daily deeds,He said no prayers, nor counted beads,Yet was he one of God’s true fold.
The morning lifts its saffron veil,And smiles with happiness replete,With Sabbath peace it doth us greet,And with the risen Lord’s “All Hail!”It mingles with the mellow soundOf church bells calling man to prayer,It falls upon the altar-stair,Where souls disconsolate are found.No more along the aisles shall moveHis stately figure, cloth in black,On days when other folk seemed slackIn the expression of their love.Not to repeat a senseless creed,Did he the house of God attend,But none like he his ear did lend,To truth of heart and human need.He was a seeker after truth,Pursuing it on flights of thought,His mind to keenness had been wroughtBy constant study, even from youth.He loved the truth in thought and life,He hated sham and cunning cant,And had a scornful smile for rant,Whose purpose was to gender strife.The Protestant and CatholicHe judged alike from human view,Both were his friends, if only true,The false alone a heretic.No honest Faith he e’er did scorn,But saw the human heart in all,The upward reaching of the soul,The waiting for a better morn.Though he with Burns did sometimes laughWhile reading “Holy Willie’s Prayer,”Or satires, like the “Holy Fair,”Or “Holy Willie’s Epitaph.”For when we cease to fear and dreadThe phantoms of a darker age,We read them like a comic page,And smile to think that they are dead.The darkness from man’s faith cast out,And truth and love alone its good,Then he shall know that brotherhood,God’s greatest prophets speak about.Then man the Father’s heart shall know,The “larger Hope” and nobler meed,Then shall his life be one grand creed,The measure of what he doth trow.Was this his faith? He never told,Except in modest daily deeds,He said no prayers, nor counted beads,Yet was he one of God’s true fold.
The morning lifts its saffron veil,And smiles with happiness replete,With Sabbath peace it doth us greet,And with the risen Lord’s “All Hail!”
It mingles with the mellow soundOf church bells calling man to prayer,It falls upon the altar-stair,Where souls disconsolate are found.
No more along the aisles shall moveHis stately figure, cloth in black,On days when other folk seemed slackIn the expression of their love.
Not to repeat a senseless creed,Did he the house of God attend,But none like he his ear did lend,To truth of heart and human need.
He was a seeker after truth,Pursuing it on flights of thought,His mind to keenness had been wroughtBy constant study, even from youth.
He loved the truth in thought and life,He hated sham and cunning cant,And had a scornful smile for rant,Whose purpose was to gender strife.
The Protestant and CatholicHe judged alike from human view,Both were his friends, if only true,The false alone a heretic.
No honest Faith he e’er did scorn,But saw the human heart in all,The upward reaching of the soul,The waiting for a better morn.
Though he with Burns did sometimes laughWhile reading “Holy Willie’s Prayer,”Or satires, like the “Holy Fair,”Or “Holy Willie’s Epitaph.”
For when we cease to fear and dreadThe phantoms of a darker age,We read them like a comic page,And smile to think that they are dead.
The darkness from man’s faith cast out,And truth and love alone its good,Then he shall know that brotherhood,God’s greatest prophets speak about.
Then man the Father’s heart shall know,The “larger Hope” and nobler meed,Then shall his life be one grand creed,The measure of what he doth trow.
Was this his faith? He never told,Except in modest daily deeds,He said no prayers, nor counted beads,Yet was he one of God’s true fold.
There moves along the street and laneA motley crowd of old and young;The nation’s anthem has been sung,A homily preached at the fane.It moves along to sound of fifeAnd muffled drum, the step to aid;The flag is to the breezes laid,A flag which bears the marks of strife.These men who carried it on high,Amid the battle’s great array,But feebly follow it to-dayTo where their fallen comrads lie.“He must increase, but I decrease,”Thus spake the prophet long ago,“Old Glory” has been strengthened so,“The boys in blue” may rest in peace.And one by one is mustered out,From ranks which ever thinner grow,Soon but a remnant we shall know,A remnant in the North and South.So let us plant our flag and flow’rUpon their grave, in Memory,—Of what they were—what we should be,In this the larger, newborn hour.But most of all, let us be kindTo these who linger yet a while,Come, walk with them the last long mile,And carry those who fall behind!
There moves along the street and laneA motley crowd of old and young;The nation’s anthem has been sung,A homily preached at the fane.It moves along to sound of fifeAnd muffled drum, the step to aid;The flag is to the breezes laid,A flag which bears the marks of strife.These men who carried it on high,Amid the battle’s great array,But feebly follow it to-dayTo where their fallen comrads lie.“He must increase, but I decrease,”Thus spake the prophet long ago,“Old Glory” has been strengthened so,“The boys in blue” may rest in peace.And one by one is mustered out,From ranks which ever thinner grow,Soon but a remnant we shall know,A remnant in the North and South.So let us plant our flag and flow’rUpon their grave, in Memory,—Of what they were—what we should be,In this the larger, newborn hour.But most of all, let us be kindTo these who linger yet a while,Come, walk with them the last long mile,And carry those who fall behind!
There moves along the street and laneA motley crowd of old and young;The nation’s anthem has been sung,A homily preached at the fane.
It moves along to sound of fifeAnd muffled drum, the step to aid;The flag is to the breezes laid,A flag which bears the marks of strife.
These men who carried it on high,Amid the battle’s great array,But feebly follow it to-dayTo where their fallen comrads lie.
“He must increase, but I decrease,”Thus spake the prophet long ago,“Old Glory” has been strengthened so,“The boys in blue” may rest in peace.
And one by one is mustered out,From ranks which ever thinner grow,Soon but a remnant we shall know,A remnant in the North and South.
So let us plant our flag and flow’rUpon their grave, in Memory,—Of what they were—what we should be,In this the larger, newborn hour.
But most of all, let us be kindTo these who linger yet a while,Come, walk with them the last long mile,And carry those who fall behind!
He was a member of this post,Lieutenant of artillery,Great Lincoln’s gift for bravery,Of which you never heard him boast.At Cedar Mountain and at Reams,Antietam and the Wilderness,Cold Harbor, with its vain distress,And Petersburg’s dark bloody streams,He knew the brunt of bitter fight,The hardship and the painful wound,He knew the cost of conquered ground,The price of freedom and of right.He knew, indeed, that “war is hell,”And did not proudly speak of it,Although his eyes were strangely lit,When campfire stories he did tell.But peace was regnant in his soul,He dreamed about that distant day,When man shall know the better way,Of peace on earth, good will to all.He read with sorrow of the war,Which Europe’s mighty nations wage,To him it seemed an insane rage,Which e’en a soldier must deplore.It cast a shadow o’er his mindTo think that progress is so slow,That highest life is still so lowAmong the foremost of mankind.His peace increased, as strength declined,The world’s sad plight he keenly felt,And human hope he clearly spelt,In Peace alone, with Truth entwined.
He was a member of this post,Lieutenant of artillery,Great Lincoln’s gift for bravery,Of which you never heard him boast.At Cedar Mountain and at Reams,Antietam and the Wilderness,Cold Harbor, with its vain distress,And Petersburg’s dark bloody streams,He knew the brunt of bitter fight,The hardship and the painful wound,He knew the cost of conquered ground,The price of freedom and of right.He knew, indeed, that “war is hell,”And did not proudly speak of it,Although his eyes were strangely lit,When campfire stories he did tell.But peace was regnant in his soul,He dreamed about that distant day,When man shall know the better way,Of peace on earth, good will to all.He read with sorrow of the war,Which Europe’s mighty nations wage,To him it seemed an insane rage,Which e’en a soldier must deplore.It cast a shadow o’er his mindTo think that progress is so slow,That highest life is still so lowAmong the foremost of mankind.His peace increased, as strength declined,The world’s sad plight he keenly felt,And human hope he clearly spelt,In Peace alone, with Truth entwined.
He was a member of this post,Lieutenant of artillery,Great Lincoln’s gift for bravery,Of which you never heard him boast.
At Cedar Mountain and at Reams,Antietam and the Wilderness,Cold Harbor, with its vain distress,And Petersburg’s dark bloody streams,
He knew the brunt of bitter fight,The hardship and the painful wound,He knew the cost of conquered ground,The price of freedom and of right.
He knew, indeed, that “war is hell,”And did not proudly speak of it,Although his eyes were strangely lit,When campfire stories he did tell.
But peace was regnant in his soul,He dreamed about that distant day,When man shall know the better way,Of peace on earth, good will to all.
He read with sorrow of the war,Which Europe’s mighty nations wage,To him it seemed an insane rage,Which e’en a soldier must deplore.
It cast a shadow o’er his mindTo think that progress is so slow,That highest life is still so lowAmong the foremost of mankind.
His peace increased, as strength declined,The world’s sad plight he keenly felt,And human hope he clearly spelt,In Peace alone, with Truth entwined.
The silver clouds move lazily,Beneath a sky so high and blue,And seem to touch the distant viewOf our mid-summer scenery.They are like dreams of other days,Of life that was and is no more,Except upon another shore,Beyond the sun’s prismatic rays.They hang above the peaceful town,They brood above the courthouse tower,Like blessings on the morning hour,And on the judgments there set down.Beneath the lawyer’s able brief,Beneath the arguments set forth,Beneath the rulings of the court,There is a silent, manly grief.The thoughts of him, who for so longDid hold the chair within this hall,Leap from his portrait on the wall,To men whose hearts are true and strong.It seems so strange, he is not there,To guide them with his light of law,Who seldom failed the right to know,Whose judgments were both just and fair.Whose mind cut keenly through the mazeOf subtlest labyrinth of guilt,Who undeceived by lawyer’s tilt,Pursued serenely logic’s ways.Was justice clear,—his heart was more,He pitied, where the law was plain,And but for duty, he had fain,Forgiv’n where sorrow did implore.
The silver clouds move lazily,Beneath a sky so high and blue,And seem to touch the distant viewOf our mid-summer scenery.They are like dreams of other days,Of life that was and is no more,Except upon another shore,Beyond the sun’s prismatic rays.They hang above the peaceful town,They brood above the courthouse tower,Like blessings on the morning hour,And on the judgments there set down.Beneath the lawyer’s able brief,Beneath the arguments set forth,Beneath the rulings of the court,There is a silent, manly grief.The thoughts of him, who for so longDid hold the chair within this hall,Leap from his portrait on the wall,To men whose hearts are true and strong.It seems so strange, he is not there,To guide them with his light of law,Who seldom failed the right to know,Whose judgments were both just and fair.Whose mind cut keenly through the mazeOf subtlest labyrinth of guilt,Who undeceived by lawyer’s tilt,Pursued serenely logic’s ways.Was justice clear,—his heart was more,He pitied, where the law was plain,And but for duty, he had fain,Forgiv’n where sorrow did implore.
The silver clouds move lazily,Beneath a sky so high and blue,And seem to touch the distant viewOf our mid-summer scenery.
They are like dreams of other days,Of life that was and is no more,Except upon another shore,Beyond the sun’s prismatic rays.
They hang above the peaceful town,They brood above the courthouse tower,Like blessings on the morning hour,And on the judgments there set down.
Beneath the lawyer’s able brief,Beneath the arguments set forth,Beneath the rulings of the court,There is a silent, manly grief.
The thoughts of him, who for so longDid hold the chair within this hall,Leap from his portrait on the wall,To men whose hearts are true and strong.
It seems so strange, he is not there,To guide them with his light of law,Who seldom failed the right to know,Whose judgments were both just and fair.
Whose mind cut keenly through the mazeOf subtlest labyrinth of guilt,Who undeceived by lawyer’s tilt,Pursued serenely logic’s ways.
Was justice clear,—his heart was more,He pitied, where the law was plain,And but for duty, he had fain,Forgiv’n where sorrow did implore.
A year is gone, again the springReturns in tender verdure clad,The little children’s hearts are glad,And robins in the maple sing.A boy is playing with the rimOf some discarded carriage-wheel,A large and rusty rim of steel,Which on the lawn lends sport to him.To me it speaks of circling years,Of circling Providence and Fate,And the return of this sad date,The day of loss and bitter tears.“Let children play” I heard him say,“The cares of life will come full soon;”The sun is dancing with the moon,At the beginning of the day.I hear a child sing a refrain,A song his mother sings full oft,The laddie’s voice is clear and soft,An anodyne for sorrow’s pain.I see another munching bread,It seems much sweeter in the free,Beneath the budding apple-tree,With soaring April clouds o’er head.Clouds growing denser and more dark;The rain begins to spot the ground,There is a gleam, and then a sound,Which make the children stop and hark.And one is crying out in fear,And all are skurrying for home;O, well for him to whom doth comeIts comfort, when the storms appear!
A year is gone, again the springReturns in tender verdure clad,The little children’s hearts are glad,And robins in the maple sing.A boy is playing with the rimOf some discarded carriage-wheel,A large and rusty rim of steel,Which on the lawn lends sport to him.To me it speaks of circling years,Of circling Providence and Fate,And the return of this sad date,The day of loss and bitter tears.“Let children play” I heard him say,“The cares of life will come full soon;”The sun is dancing with the moon,At the beginning of the day.I hear a child sing a refrain,A song his mother sings full oft,The laddie’s voice is clear and soft,An anodyne for sorrow’s pain.I see another munching bread,It seems much sweeter in the free,Beneath the budding apple-tree,With soaring April clouds o’er head.Clouds growing denser and more dark;The rain begins to spot the ground,There is a gleam, and then a sound,Which make the children stop and hark.And one is crying out in fear,And all are skurrying for home;O, well for him to whom doth comeIts comfort, when the storms appear!
A year is gone, again the springReturns in tender verdure clad,The little children’s hearts are glad,And robins in the maple sing.
A boy is playing with the rimOf some discarded carriage-wheel,A large and rusty rim of steel,Which on the lawn lends sport to him.
To me it speaks of circling years,Of circling Providence and Fate,And the return of this sad date,The day of loss and bitter tears.
“Let children play” I heard him say,“The cares of life will come full soon;”The sun is dancing with the moon,At the beginning of the day.
I hear a child sing a refrain,A song his mother sings full oft,The laddie’s voice is clear and soft,An anodyne for sorrow’s pain.
I see another munching bread,It seems much sweeter in the free,Beneath the budding apple-tree,With soaring April clouds o’er head.
Clouds growing denser and more dark;The rain begins to spot the ground,There is a gleam, and then a sound,Which make the children stop and hark.
And one is crying out in fear,And all are skurrying for home;O, well for him to whom doth comeIts comfort, when the storms appear!
Whose carriage, drawn by sable span,Stops at the long deserted home?It is his dear ones who have come,—The daughters of a noble man;—And she whose life was one with his,—Whose love transcends the bounds of death,—Comes with a rose-boquet’s sweet breath,To greet his mem’ry with a kiss.The heavens weep, and true hearts weep,And in the house is evening-gloom,They stand together in the room,Where he this hour did fall asleep.Then pass into the world again,From sorrow’s holy sacrament;—To one, who lingered near, it lent,Abiding greetings from his friend.
Whose carriage, drawn by sable span,Stops at the long deserted home?It is his dear ones who have come,—The daughters of a noble man;—And she whose life was one with his,—Whose love transcends the bounds of death,—Comes with a rose-boquet’s sweet breath,To greet his mem’ry with a kiss.The heavens weep, and true hearts weep,And in the house is evening-gloom,They stand together in the room,Where he this hour did fall asleep.Then pass into the world again,From sorrow’s holy sacrament;—To one, who lingered near, it lent,Abiding greetings from his friend.
Whose carriage, drawn by sable span,Stops at the long deserted home?It is his dear ones who have come,—The daughters of a noble man;—
And she whose life was one with his,—Whose love transcends the bounds of death,—Comes with a rose-boquet’s sweet breath,To greet his mem’ry with a kiss.
The heavens weep, and true hearts weep,And in the house is evening-gloom,They stand together in the room,Where he this hour did fall asleep.
Then pass into the world again,From sorrow’s holy sacrament;—To one, who lingered near, it lent,Abiding greetings from his friend.
White clover studs the velvet lawn,And fancy forms a monumentOf marble-frieze, a tracing blentWith emerald and rosy dawn.The carved stone is for the eyeOf passers by, who needs be told,In characters and numbers bold,His name; when born; when he did die.To those who love, the strolling breezeIs kindly whispering his name,And who can tell from where it came,Or whither all its music flees?O’er those the flowers cast a spell,The dream of a midsummer night,And with their shapes and hues, delightBring forth his name in mead and dell.And sprightly, as from Elfin coast,There comes the boy he loved so well,His eyes and locks and forehead tell,He is his grandsire’s child the most.The clover-blossoms, white as snow,Attract his eye, as they do mine,We gather them and lightly twineA garland for his comely brow.Such wreath put round his tresses dark,Gives godlike aspect to the lad;He laughs and runs, his heart is glad,With gladness of a soaring lark.I heard thee say, when life did slope:“Man is immortal in his race;”And now I see thee in this face,So radiant, so full of hope.
White clover studs the velvet lawn,And fancy forms a monumentOf marble-frieze, a tracing blentWith emerald and rosy dawn.The carved stone is for the eyeOf passers by, who needs be told,In characters and numbers bold,His name; when born; when he did die.To those who love, the strolling breezeIs kindly whispering his name,And who can tell from where it came,Or whither all its music flees?O’er those the flowers cast a spell,The dream of a midsummer night,And with their shapes and hues, delightBring forth his name in mead and dell.And sprightly, as from Elfin coast,There comes the boy he loved so well,His eyes and locks and forehead tell,He is his grandsire’s child the most.The clover-blossoms, white as snow,Attract his eye, as they do mine,We gather them and lightly twineA garland for his comely brow.Such wreath put round his tresses dark,Gives godlike aspect to the lad;He laughs and runs, his heart is glad,With gladness of a soaring lark.I heard thee say, when life did slope:“Man is immortal in his race;”And now I see thee in this face,So radiant, so full of hope.
White clover studs the velvet lawn,And fancy forms a monumentOf marble-frieze, a tracing blentWith emerald and rosy dawn.
The carved stone is for the eyeOf passers by, who needs be told,In characters and numbers bold,His name; when born; when he did die.
To those who love, the strolling breezeIs kindly whispering his name,And who can tell from where it came,Or whither all its music flees?
O’er those the flowers cast a spell,The dream of a midsummer night,And with their shapes and hues, delightBring forth his name in mead and dell.
And sprightly, as from Elfin coast,There comes the boy he loved so well,His eyes and locks and forehead tell,He is his grandsire’s child the most.
The clover-blossoms, white as snow,Attract his eye, as they do mine,We gather them and lightly twineA garland for his comely brow.
Such wreath put round his tresses dark,Gives godlike aspect to the lad;He laughs and runs, his heart is glad,With gladness of a soaring lark.
I heard thee say, when life did slope:“Man is immortal in his race;”And now I see thee in this face,So radiant, so full of hope.
’Twas here, where slopes the hill into the vale,With many a roof and tow’r and heav’nward spire,And rows of lofty elms,—that wan and paleHe gazed upon the sunset and its fire,Which glowed in sky and river, on the greenAnd curving hills and far-off hazy plain;The early summer was upon the scene—All fresh and verdant after days of rain—He looked upon it all with wistful eye,His life’s arena ere he went to die.What thoughts came to him then I do not know,But seldom man was granted better placeTo take farewell with everything below,And look into the Father’s smiling face,—For nature’s Vesper, glorious with light,Held sweet communion with the days of yore,And blessed the deeds of service and the right,The things that vanish not, forevermore;And saw he this, then had his last adieuNo painful pang, but rather, that he knew,The morrow of that evening would be fair,And rich in great and good realities,Though, like all pilgrims, he wist hardly whereThe homeland looms with bright felicities.With Cato he believed “it must be so.”That this strange sojourn is not all in vain,And that somewhere the longing soul shall knowThe meaning of the journey’s toil and pain,And find the quest for which he daily strove,Embodied in the light of truth and love.He said farewell to friends of many years,As sank the sun behind the farthest ridge,And chilly shadows came with darksome fearsTo those who homeward turned, across the bridge;And he passed on with that which ne’er I seeWithout the feeling of a mystery,—The train of life, the unknown destiny,The ardent hopes, the crushing miseryIt bears along, as with a magic speed,—The wonder of the age, the country’s iron-steed.And in its speed was hope, for at the endStood Skill and Wisdom to prolong his life,And with him fared a kind and trusted friend,And more than all, his e’er devoted wife,But Skill and Love’s most consecrated aidCould not prolong a life—that was complete,And like a man, the last great toll he paid,Unfaltering, his God and Judge to meet.But we, who took his hand upon this slope,With parting words, have in this fitting frameOf nature placed his life of work and hope,And writ upon it all his honored name,A name that lives in grateful memoriesOf those to whom he gave his ministries.
’Twas here, where slopes the hill into the vale,With many a roof and tow’r and heav’nward spire,And rows of lofty elms,—that wan and paleHe gazed upon the sunset and its fire,Which glowed in sky and river, on the greenAnd curving hills and far-off hazy plain;The early summer was upon the scene—All fresh and verdant after days of rain—He looked upon it all with wistful eye,His life’s arena ere he went to die.What thoughts came to him then I do not know,But seldom man was granted better placeTo take farewell with everything below,And look into the Father’s smiling face,—For nature’s Vesper, glorious with light,Held sweet communion with the days of yore,And blessed the deeds of service and the right,The things that vanish not, forevermore;And saw he this, then had his last adieuNo painful pang, but rather, that he knew,The morrow of that evening would be fair,And rich in great and good realities,Though, like all pilgrims, he wist hardly whereThe homeland looms with bright felicities.With Cato he believed “it must be so.”That this strange sojourn is not all in vain,And that somewhere the longing soul shall knowThe meaning of the journey’s toil and pain,And find the quest for which he daily strove,Embodied in the light of truth and love.He said farewell to friends of many years,As sank the sun behind the farthest ridge,And chilly shadows came with darksome fearsTo those who homeward turned, across the bridge;And he passed on with that which ne’er I seeWithout the feeling of a mystery,—The train of life, the unknown destiny,The ardent hopes, the crushing miseryIt bears along, as with a magic speed,—The wonder of the age, the country’s iron-steed.And in its speed was hope, for at the endStood Skill and Wisdom to prolong his life,And with him fared a kind and trusted friend,And more than all, his e’er devoted wife,But Skill and Love’s most consecrated aidCould not prolong a life—that was complete,And like a man, the last great toll he paid,Unfaltering, his God and Judge to meet.But we, who took his hand upon this slope,With parting words, have in this fitting frameOf nature placed his life of work and hope,And writ upon it all his honored name,A name that lives in grateful memoriesOf those to whom he gave his ministries.
’Twas here, where slopes the hill into the vale,With many a roof and tow’r and heav’nward spire,And rows of lofty elms,—that wan and paleHe gazed upon the sunset and its fire,Which glowed in sky and river, on the greenAnd curving hills and far-off hazy plain;The early summer was upon the scene—All fresh and verdant after days of rain—He looked upon it all with wistful eye,His life’s arena ere he went to die.
What thoughts came to him then I do not know,But seldom man was granted better placeTo take farewell with everything below,And look into the Father’s smiling face,—For nature’s Vesper, glorious with light,Held sweet communion with the days of yore,And blessed the deeds of service and the right,The things that vanish not, forevermore;And saw he this, then had his last adieuNo painful pang, but rather, that he knew,The morrow of that evening would be fair,And rich in great and good realities,Though, like all pilgrims, he wist hardly whereThe homeland looms with bright felicities.
With Cato he believed “it must be so.”That this strange sojourn is not all in vain,And that somewhere the longing soul shall knowThe meaning of the journey’s toil and pain,And find the quest for which he daily strove,Embodied in the light of truth and love.
He said farewell to friends of many years,As sank the sun behind the farthest ridge,And chilly shadows came with darksome fearsTo those who homeward turned, across the bridge;And he passed on with that which ne’er I seeWithout the feeling of a mystery,—The train of life, the unknown destiny,The ardent hopes, the crushing miseryIt bears along, as with a magic speed,—The wonder of the age, the country’s iron-steed.
And in its speed was hope, for at the endStood Skill and Wisdom to prolong his life,And with him fared a kind and trusted friend,And more than all, his e’er devoted wife,But Skill and Love’s most consecrated aidCould not prolong a life—that was complete,And like a man, the last great toll he paid,Unfaltering, his God and Judge to meet.
But we, who took his hand upon this slope,With parting words, have in this fitting frameOf nature placed his life of work and hope,And writ upon it all his honored name,A name that lives in grateful memoriesOf those to whom he gave his ministries.
I see her kneeling at the moundOf baby Bruce,And placing on the turfless groundSweet flow’rs, profuse,I see the pearls of bitter tearsFall on their leaves;Alas, that one in tender yearsSo sorely grieves!Yes, he was fairer than the flow’rsOf rarest hue,His smile sweet as the morning hour’sGleam in the dew,And as we looked into his eyesSo large and brown,It seemed an angel from the skiesHad just come down.What heaven gave, again it took—Its ways are good,But now in pity it does lookOn motherhood,—Whose love so young, so pure, so deep,Eats sorrow’s bread,—And whispers: “Woman do not weep,He is not dead.”
I see her kneeling at the moundOf baby Bruce,And placing on the turfless groundSweet flow’rs, profuse,I see the pearls of bitter tearsFall on their leaves;Alas, that one in tender yearsSo sorely grieves!Yes, he was fairer than the flow’rsOf rarest hue,His smile sweet as the morning hour’sGleam in the dew,And as we looked into his eyesSo large and brown,It seemed an angel from the skiesHad just come down.What heaven gave, again it took—Its ways are good,But now in pity it does lookOn motherhood,—Whose love so young, so pure, so deep,Eats sorrow’s bread,—And whispers: “Woman do not weep,He is not dead.”
I see her kneeling at the moundOf baby Bruce,And placing on the turfless groundSweet flow’rs, profuse,I see the pearls of bitter tearsFall on their leaves;Alas, that one in tender yearsSo sorely grieves!
Yes, he was fairer than the flow’rsOf rarest hue,His smile sweet as the morning hour’sGleam in the dew,And as we looked into his eyesSo large and brown,It seemed an angel from the skiesHad just come down.
What heaven gave, again it took—Its ways are good,But now in pity it does lookOn motherhood,—Whose love so young, so pure, so deep,Eats sorrow’s bread,—And whispers: “Woman do not weep,He is not dead.”
The dusk was upon hill and wood,Upon the fields of soft new snow,The pine-trees in God’s acre stood,With branches laden, bending low,And marble shaft and monument,Like mystic, beings draped and pale,Seemed listening to the bells that sentTheir Christmas greeting through the vale.Around an open, little graveThere stood a group of weeping folk;“The Lord hath taken what he gave,We sorrow not as without hope,For he who gave us Christmas eveSaid: ‘Let the children come to me,Of such the kingdom is,’ they live,With him in joy eternally.”Thus spake the minister of God,But still the parent’s heart did sob,And when they heaped the frozen clod,He felt that heav’n his hope did rob,Congealing tears did cease to fall,And thicker, denser grew the gloom,The church-bell’s clang jarred on his soul,He wished that grave for him had room.
The dusk was upon hill and wood,Upon the fields of soft new snow,The pine-trees in God’s acre stood,With branches laden, bending low,And marble shaft and monument,Like mystic, beings draped and pale,Seemed listening to the bells that sentTheir Christmas greeting through the vale.Around an open, little graveThere stood a group of weeping folk;“The Lord hath taken what he gave,We sorrow not as without hope,For he who gave us Christmas eveSaid: ‘Let the children come to me,Of such the kingdom is,’ they live,With him in joy eternally.”Thus spake the minister of God,But still the parent’s heart did sob,And when they heaped the frozen clod,He felt that heav’n his hope did rob,Congealing tears did cease to fall,And thicker, denser grew the gloom,The church-bell’s clang jarred on his soul,He wished that grave for him had room.
The dusk was upon hill and wood,Upon the fields of soft new snow,The pine-trees in God’s acre stood,With branches laden, bending low,And marble shaft and monument,Like mystic, beings draped and pale,Seemed listening to the bells that sentTheir Christmas greeting through the vale.
Around an open, little graveThere stood a group of weeping folk;“The Lord hath taken what he gave,We sorrow not as without hope,For he who gave us Christmas eveSaid: ‘Let the children come to me,Of such the kingdom is,’ they live,With him in joy eternally.”
Thus spake the minister of God,But still the parent’s heart did sob,And when they heaped the frozen clod,He felt that heav’n his hope did rob,Congealing tears did cease to fall,And thicker, denser grew the gloom,The church-bell’s clang jarred on his soul,He wished that grave for him had room.
How shall I shake off the darkness,The nightmare that feeds on my soul?—I looked through the windows this morning,Upon the embankments of snow,That ridged to the porch of my dwelling,And covered its floor,Where a half buried branch of an ever-green rested,Torn from a discarded Christmas-tree,Back of the church;—The terrible wind of the nightHad cut it and carried it thither,Where in the white, like a wreath it protruded its green,A wreath for the dead,Whose soul mid the storm of the nightHad taken its flight.—O, God, how utterly eerie it seemedTo my mind that had worried aloneThrough the vigils of night!And on that day came the message,That she was no more.
How shall I shake off the darkness,The nightmare that feeds on my soul?—I looked through the windows this morning,Upon the embankments of snow,That ridged to the porch of my dwelling,And covered its floor,Where a half buried branch of an ever-green rested,Torn from a discarded Christmas-tree,Back of the church;—The terrible wind of the nightHad cut it and carried it thither,Where in the white, like a wreath it protruded its green,A wreath for the dead,Whose soul mid the storm of the nightHad taken its flight.—O, God, how utterly eerie it seemedTo my mind that had worried aloneThrough the vigils of night!And on that day came the message,That she was no more.
How shall I shake off the darkness,The nightmare that feeds on my soul?—I looked through the windows this morning,Upon the embankments of snow,That ridged to the porch of my dwelling,And covered its floor,Where a half buried branch of an ever-green rested,Torn from a discarded Christmas-tree,Back of the church;—The terrible wind of the nightHad cut it and carried it thither,Where in the white, like a wreath it protruded its green,A wreath for the dead,Whose soul mid the storm of the nightHad taken its flight.—O, God, how utterly eerie it seemedTo my mind that had worried aloneThrough the vigils of night!And on that day came the message,That she was no more.
I sit alone in evening-gloom,The night is cold, and shrill the wind,I make a church out of my room,To find some solace for the mind.Oft have I spoken mid the throngsOf such who pitied the bereaved,Oft have I listened to the songsWhich other burdened hearts relieved.But with my grief I am alone,Far from the scene of those who weep,Within the old ancestral home,Beyond the ocean’s stormy deep.I have his picture at my right,I have it clearer in my heart,For blurred and darkened is the sight,And rays of mortal day depart.* * * * * * * *Thou wert so strong, so brave, so true,I looked to thee, as boy and youth,My life did take from thee its hueIn whatsoe’er it has of truth.Thy toil, thy suffering, and love,The love of home and native land,So strangely clear come to me now,Like blessings of an honest hand.Thou saidst to me: “I will not leaveThe land wherein thy mother rests;”How could I seek thy heart to grieveWith all this new world’s varied quests?Farewell, I may not see the place,Where they have laid thee by her side,But memories of vanished days,Shall ever dear with me abide.The distance would not let me layA garland on thy sable bier,Therefore this wreath, a simple lay,Fresh with the dew of many a tear.I’ll weave out of my heart a wreathOf flowers which e’er shall blossom there,—Like those red blood-drops on the heath,The ling which winter cannot sere.
I sit alone in evening-gloom,The night is cold, and shrill the wind,I make a church out of my room,To find some solace for the mind.Oft have I spoken mid the throngsOf such who pitied the bereaved,Oft have I listened to the songsWhich other burdened hearts relieved.But with my grief I am alone,Far from the scene of those who weep,Within the old ancestral home,Beyond the ocean’s stormy deep.I have his picture at my right,I have it clearer in my heart,For blurred and darkened is the sight,And rays of mortal day depart.* * * * * * * *Thou wert so strong, so brave, so true,I looked to thee, as boy and youth,My life did take from thee its hueIn whatsoe’er it has of truth.Thy toil, thy suffering, and love,The love of home and native land,So strangely clear come to me now,Like blessings of an honest hand.Thou saidst to me: “I will not leaveThe land wherein thy mother rests;”How could I seek thy heart to grieveWith all this new world’s varied quests?Farewell, I may not see the place,Where they have laid thee by her side,But memories of vanished days,Shall ever dear with me abide.The distance would not let me layA garland on thy sable bier,Therefore this wreath, a simple lay,Fresh with the dew of many a tear.I’ll weave out of my heart a wreathOf flowers which e’er shall blossom there,—Like those red blood-drops on the heath,The ling which winter cannot sere.
I sit alone in evening-gloom,The night is cold, and shrill the wind,I make a church out of my room,To find some solace for the mind.
Oft have I spoken mid the throngsOf such who pitied the bereaved,Oft have I listened to the songsWhich other burdened hearts relieved.
But with my grief I am alone,Far from the scene of those who weep,Within the old ancestral home,Beyond the ocean’s stormy deep.
I have his picture at my right,I have it clearer in my heart,For blurred and darkened is the sight,And rays of mortal day depart.* * * * * * * *Thou wert so strong, so brave, so true,I looked to thee, as boy and youth,My life did take from thee its hueIn whatsoe’er it has of truth.
Thy toil, thy suffering, and love,The love of home and native land,So strangely clear come to me now,Like blessings of an honest hand.
Thou saidst to me: “I will not leaveThe land wherein thy mother rests;”How could I seek thy heart to grieveWith all this new world’s varied quests?
Farewell, I may not see the place,Where they have laid thee by her side,But memories of vanished days,Shall ever dear with me abide.
The distance would not let me layA garland on thy sable bier,Therefore this wreath, a simple lay,Fresh with the dew of many a tear.
I’ll weave out of my heart a wreathOf flowers which e’er shall blossom there,—Like those red blood-drops on the heath,The ling which winter cannot sere.
Above the monster cannon’s roaring thunder,Above the hailstorm of the musketry,Above the shrieking shells that burst asunder,With def’ning crash, man’s strongest masonry:Above the tumult and the din of battle,The loud command, the bugles’ egging call,Above the groans of wounded and the rattleOf death in thousand throats, above it all—There is a hand that overrules man’s madness,And causes ev’n his anger Him to praise,A hand which from destruction, grief and sadnessBrings better prospects for the struggling race;The hand of Providence which in all agesHas shaped the history of human-kind,And we may read upon its blood-stained pagesThe loving purpose of the Father’s mind.From Europe’s awful carnage, ruin, sorrow,Caused by a greed insane and pride of Kings,There will arise a brighter, better morrowWith righteousness and healing in its wings.A day of freedom when the thrones must tumble,A day when nations shall cast off the yoke,When none shall batten on the poor and humble,And untruth walk about in priestly cloak.When Celt and Teuton, Slav and Anglo-Saxon,Shall wisdom learn from this their plunge in gore,And cease to spend their strength in paying tax onTheir daily bread for implements of war;When they shall dwell in harmony as brothers,Which is the true foundation of the world,When good of one is good of all the others,Then will His Kingdom’s banner be unfurled.
Above the monster cannon’s roaring thunder,Above the hailstorm of the musketry,Above the shrieking shells that burst asunder,With def’ning crash, man’s strongest masonry:Above the tumult and the din of battle,The loud command, the bugles’ egging call,Above the groans of wounded and the rattleOf death in thousand throats, above it all—There is a hand that overrules man’s madness,And causes ev’n his anger Him to praise,A hand which from destruction, grief and sadnessBrings better prospects for the struggling race;The hand of Providence which in all agesHas shaped the history of human-kind,And we may read upon its blood-stained pagesThe loving purpose of the Father’s mind.From Europe’s awful carnage, ruin, sorrow,Caused by a greed insane and pride of Kings,There will arise a brighter, better morrowWith righteousness and healing in its wings.A day of freedom when the thrones must tumble,A day when nations shall cast off the yoke,When none shall batten on the poor and humble,And untruth walk about in priestly cloak.When Celt and Teuton, Slav and Anglo-Saxon,Shall wisdom learn from this their plunge in gore,And cease to spend their strength in paying tax onTheir daily bread for implements of war;When they shall dwell in harmony as brothers,Which is the true foundation of the world,When good of one is good of all the others,Then will His Kingdom’s banner be unfurled.
Above the monster cannon’s roaring thunder,Above the hailstorm of the musketry,Above the shrieking shells that burst asunder,With def’ning crash, man’s strongest masonry:Above the tumult and the din of battle,The loud command, the bugles’ egging call,Above the groans of wounded and the rattleOf death in thousand throats, above it all—
There is a hand that overrules man’s madness,And causes ev’n his anger Him to praise,A hand which from destruction, grief and sadnessBrings better prospects for the struggling race;The hand of Providence which in all agesHas shaped the history of human-kind,And we may read upon its blood-stained pagesThe loving purpose of the Father’s mind.
From Europe’s awful carnage, ruin, sorrow,Caused by a greed insane and pride of Kings,There will arise a brighter, better morrowWith righteousness and healing in its wings.A day of freedom when the thrones must tumble,A day when nations shall cast off the yoke,When none shall batten on the poor and humble,And untruth walk about in priestly cloak.
When Celt and Teuton, Slav and Anglo-Saxon,Shall wisdom learn from this their plunge in gore,And cease to spend their strength in paying tax onTheir daily bread for implements of war;When they shall dwell in harmony as brothers,Which is the true foundation of the world,When good of one is good of all the others,Then will His Kingdom’s banner be unfurled.
Written after having heard the Hon. Duncan McKinley’s lecture on “The Japanese in America.”
Written after having heard the Hon. Duncan McKinley’s lecture on “The Japanese in America.”
Whene’er the races of the EastShall rise like floods in melting-time,With fury of the hungry beast;And homeless in their native climeShall shelter seek in this great land;Woe then to us, if unpreparedWe are the influx to withstand;Remember Rome, and how she fared!Her wealth and vineyards did allureThe Goth, the Vandal and the Hun,Their hordes swooped down, while quite secureShe dwelt beneath her summer-sun;Proud of her past and opulentShe scorned the wild advancing foe,But found full soon her legions spentIn warding off the fatal blow.She fell and alien nations tookThe scepter from her feeble hand;Thus written is the judgment book,Let statesmen read and understand;The yellow peril from the East,From Nippon and from old CathayWill come unbidden to the feast,If we neglect to guard the way.
Whene’er the races of the EastShall rise like floods in melting-time,With fury of the hungry beast;And homeless in their native climeShall shelter seek in this great land;Woe then to us, if unpreparedWe are the influx to withstand;Remember Rome, and how she fared!Her wealth and vineyards did allureThe Goth, the Vandal and the Hun,Their hordes swooped down, while quite secureShe dwelt beneath her summer-sun;Proud of her past and opulentShe scorned the wild advancing foe,But found full soon her legions spentIn warding off the fatal blow.She fell and alien nations tookThe scepter from her feeble hand;Thus written is the judgment book,Let statesmen read and understand;The yellow peril from the East,From Nippon and from old CathayWill come unbidden to the feast,If we neglect to guard the way.
Whene’er the races of the EastShall rise like floods in melting-time,With fury of the hungry beast;And homeless in their native climeShall shelter seek in this great land;Woe then to us, if unpreparedWe are the influx to withstand;Remember Rome, and how she fared!
Her wealth and vineyards did allureThe Goth, the Vandal and the Hun,Their hordes swooped down, while quite secureShe dwelt beneath her summer-sun;Proud of her past and opulentShe scorned the wild advancing foe,But found full soon her legions spentIn warding off the fatal blow.
She fell and alien nations tookThe scepter from her feeble hand;Thus written is the judgment book,Let statesmen read and understand;The yellow peril from the East,From Nippon and from old CathayWill come unbidden to the feast,If we neglect to guard the way.
Eighty winters have turned him white,White of beard and of crown,Slackened his steps and dimmed his sight,Bent him and weighed him down,Not only with war, but with toils of peace,Toil of the pioneer’s life,Now at eighty he takes his ease,The fruit of his years is rife.Proud he is of the things achieved,Glad for things as they are,Greater far than he once believedWhen new was his battle-scar;But he lives in the past, and speaksOften of bloody frays,Of roaring guns and shrapnel’s shrieksIn dark Rebellion days.Bull Run, Chancellorsville, but mostGettysburg’s three days fight,Pickett’s charge, and the thousands lost,Burying them in the night,These are subjects on which he dwells,For he himself was there.Younger he seems while he sits and tells,A smouldering fire seems flare.Tales of war by a man who lovesPeace and good will among men,Veterans pride without silken gloves,Calling the rebel his friend,Sighs he and says: “Oh, war is hell;Peace is the pearl of great price,Costlier far than mortal can tell,Nations who keep it are wise.”Met him I did the other day,Reading a morning-sheet:“Blame on the Mexicans for the wayOur Old Glory they treat,Tearing it down from our consulate,Trampling it in the mud,Flag of the free must it meet such a fate,Flag, bought with patriots’ blood!”“Reading such things, I feel that I couldShoulder a musket still,Feel that my insulted country should‘Rise in its strength with a will,Lifting Old Glory o’er Mexico,Ne’er to come down again,Patriots’ fire—has it ceased to glow?—Look to your flag, young men!”
Eighty winters have turned him white,White of beard and of crown,Slackened his steps and dimmed his sight,Bent him and weighed him down,Not only with war, but with toils of peace,Toil of the pioneer’s life,Now at eighty he takes his ease,The fruit of his years is rife.Proud he is of the things achieved,Glad for things as they are,Greater far than he once believedWhen new was his battle-scar;But he lives in the past, and speaksOften of bloody frays,Of roaring guns and shrapnel’s shrieksIn dark Rebellion days.Bull Run, Chancellorsville, but mostGettysburg’s three days fight,Pickett’s charge, and the thousands lost,Burying them in the night,These are subjects on which he dwells,For he himself was there.Younger he seems while he sits and tells,A smouldering fire seems flare.Tales of war by a man who lovesPeace and good will among men,Veterans pride without silken gloves,Calling the rebel his friend,Sighs he and says: “Oh, war is hell;Peace is the pearl of great price,Costlier far than mortal can tell,Nations who keep it are wise.”Met him I did the other day,Reading a morning-sheet:“Blame on the Mexicans for the wayOur Old Glory they treat,Tearing it down from our consulate,Trampling it in the mud,Flag of the free must it meet such a fate,Flag, bought with patriots’ blood!”“Reading such things, I feel that I couldShoulder a musket still,Feel that my insulted country should‘Rise in its strength with a will,Lifting Old Glory o’er Mexico,Ne’er to come down again,Patriots’ fire—has it ceased to glow?—Look to your flag, young men!”
Eighty winters have turned him white,White of beard and of crown,Slackened his steps and dimmed his sight,Bent him and weighed him down,Not only with war, but with toils of peace,Toil of the pioneer’s life,Now at eighty he takes his ease,The fruit of his years is rife.
Proud he is of the things achieved,Glad for things as they are,Greater far than he once believedWhen new was his battle-scar;But he lives in the past, and speaksOften of bloody frays,Of roaring guns and shrapnel’s shrieksIn dark Rebellion days.
Bull Run, Chancellorsville, but mostGettysburg’s three days fight,Pickett’s charge, and the thousands lost,Burying them in the night,These are subjects on which he dwells,For he himself was there.Younger he seems while he sits and tells,A smouldering fire seems flare.
Tales of war by a man who lovesPeace and good will among men,Veterans pride without silken gloves,Calling the rebel his friend,Sighs he and says: “Oh, war is hell;Peace is the pearl of great price,Costlier far than mortal can tell,Nations who keep it are wise.”
Met him I did the other day,Reading a morning-sheet:“Blame on the Mexicans for the wayOur Old Glory they treat,Tearing it down from our consulate,Trampling it in the mud,Flag of the free must it meet such a fate,Flag, bought with patriots’ blood!”
“Reading such things, I feel that I couldShoulder a musket still,Feel that my insulted country should‘Rise in its strength with a will,Lifting Old Glory o’er Mexico,Ne’er to come down again,Patriots’ fire—has it ceased to glow?—Look to your flag, young men!”
A cry arises from the blood-soaked earth,A cry of anguish, dying in despair,And with hell’s horrors is the world engirt,The prince of darkness ruleth in the air.The gods are passing, and the kingdoms fall,And Cosmos trembles like an autumn leaf;What seemed the greatest sinks into the small,And what seemed glory changes into grief.The jewelled crowns and diadems are castInto the balance of the Only Just,They are like chaff, which scattered by the blast,Is lost, and mingles with the common dust.The Dies Irae has arrived at last,The books are opened by the Lamb of God,The age of tyranny and greed is past,He breaks oppression with His iron-rod.And truth imprisoned, justice quite forgot,Stand ‘for His judgment-seat in spotless white,The earth and heaven new shall be their lot,Upon the morn, now dawning from the night.
A cry arises from the blood-soaked earth,A cry of anguish, dying in despair,And with hell’s horrors is the world engirt,The prince of darkness ruleth in the air.The gods are passing, and the kingdoms fall,And Cosmos trembles like an autumn leaf;What seemed the greatest sinks into the small,And what seemed glory changes into grief.The jewelled crowns and diadems are castInto the balance of the Only Just,They are like chaff, which scattered by the blast,Is lost, and mingles with the common dust.The Dies Irae has arrived at last,The books are opened by the Lamb of God,The age of tyranny and greed is past,He breaks oppression with His iron-rod.And truth imprisoned, justice quite forgot,Stand ‘for His judgment-seat in spotless white,The earth and heaven new shall be their lot,Upon the morn, now dawning from the night.
A cry arises from the blood-soaked earth,A cry of anguish, dying in despair,And with hell’s horrors is the world engirt,The prince of darkness ruleth in the air.
The gods are passing, and the kingdoms fall,And Cosmos trembles like an autumn leaf;What seemed the greatest sinks into the small,And what seemed glory changes into grief.
The jewelled crowns and diadems are castInto the balance of the Only Just,They are like chaff, which scattered by the blast,Is lost, and mingles with the common dust.
The Dies Irae has arrived at last,The books are opened by the Lamb of God,The age of tyranny and greed is past,He breaks oppression with His iron-rod.
And truth imprisoned, justice quite forgot,Stand ‘for His judgment-seat in spotless white,The earth and heaven new shall be their lot,Upon the morn, now dawning from the night.
From purple woods the stock-dove’s notes are flowing,As deep and melancholy as the night,Whose shadows from the early morning’s glowingNow take their flight;So sweetly clear, and gently wooing,They bring my soul an exquisite delight.A byre-cock’s crow comes shrilly from afar,And wakes loud answers in the neighbor’s yard,They greet the coming of Apollo’s car,Like many a modern and accepted bard;But to the woodland notes compared they areSo challenging, and hard.The farmer rises wearily from bed,Looks on the morn, and smiles that it is fair,For he must toil that others may be fed,And Providence has placed on him its care,While others fight, and mingle with the dead,To nourish hope and life becomes his share.But who has eyes and ears for nature’s ways?Who goes to matin at the stock-doves call?When man his brother man so foully slays,And nations into utter ruin fall;Must war obscure the morning’s rosy rays,And keep a May-dawn’s music from the soul?A time like this demands the bread and meat,But also music for the famished heart;And we should rise the better things to greet,Be they in nature, or in perfect art,Lest struggling man at last must fall beneathThe load in which now all men have a part.
From purple woods the stock-dove’s notes are flowing,As deep and melancholy as the night,Whose shadows from the early morning’s glowingNow take their flight;So sweetly clear, and gently wooing,They bring my soul an exquisite delight.A byre-cock’s crow comes shrilly from afar,And wakes loud answers in the neighbor’s yard,They greet the coming of Apollo’s car,Like many a modern and accepted bard;But to the woodland notes compared they areSo challenging, and hard.The farmer rises wearily from bed,Looks on the morn, and smiles that it is fair,For he must toil that others may be fed,And Providence has placed on him its care,While others fight, and mingle with the dead,To nourish hope and life becomes his share.But who has eyes and ears for nature’s ways?Who goes to matin at the stock-doves call?When man his brother man so foully slays,And nations into utter ruin fall;Must war obscure the morning’s rosy rays,And keep a May-dawn’s music from the soul?A time like this demands the bread and meat,But also music for the famished heart;And we should rise the better things to greet,Be they in nature, or in perfect art,Lest struggling man at last must fall beneathThe load in which now all men have a part.
From purple woods the stock-dove’s notes are flowing,As deep and melancholy as the night,Whose shadows from the early morning’s glowingNow take their flight;So sweetly clear, and gently wooing,They bring my soul an exquisite delight.
A byre-cock’s crow comes shrilly from afar,And wakes loud answers in the neighbor’s yard,They greet the coming of Apollo’s car,Like many a modern and accepted bard;But to the woodland notes compared they areSo challenging, and hard.
The farmer rises wearily from bed,Looks on the morn, and smiles that it is fair,For he must toil that others may be fed,And Providence has placed on him its care,While others fight, and mingle with the dead,To nourish hope and life becomes his share.
But who has eyes and ears for nature’s ways?Who goes to matin at the stock-doves call?When man his brother man so foully slays,And nations into utter ruin fall;Must war obscure the morning’s rosy rays,And keep a May-dawn’s music from the soul?
A time like this demands the bread and meat,But also music for the famished heart;And we should rise the better things to greet,Be they in nature, or in perfect art,Lest struggling man at last must fall beneathThe load in which now all men have a part.