Not his the soldier's sword to wield, Nor his the helm of state, Nor glory of the stricken field, Nor triumph of debate.

In common ways, with common men, He served his race and time As well as if his clerkly pen Had never danced to rhyme.

If, in the thronged and noisy mart, The Muses found their son, Could any say his tuneful art A duty left undone?

He toiled and sang; and year by year Men found their homes more sweet, And through a tenderer atmosphere Looked down the brick-walled street.

The Greek's wild onset gall Street knew; The Red King walked Broadway; And Alnwick Castle's roses blew From Palisades to Bay.

Fair City by the Sea! upraise His veil with reverent hands; And mingle with thy own the praise And pride of other lands.

Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe Above her hero-urns; And Scotland, with her holly, wreathe The flower he culled for Burns.

Oh, stately stand thy palace walls, Thy tall ships ride the seas; To-day thy poet's name recalls A prouder thought than these.

Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat, Nor less thy tall fleets swim, That shaded square and dusty street Are classic ground through him.

Alive, he loved, like all who sing, The echoes of his song; Too late the tardy meed we bring, The praise delayed so long.

Too late, alas! Of all who knew The living man, to-day Before his unveiled face, how few Make bare their locks of gray!

Our lips of praise must soon be dumb, Our grateful eyes be dim; O brothers of the days to come, Take tender charge of him!

New hands the wires of song may sweep, New voices challenge fame; But let no moss of years o'ercreep The lines of Halleck's name.

1877.



WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT.

Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn Beside her sea-blown shore; Her well beloved, her noblest born, Is hers in life no more!

No lapse of years can render less Her memory's sacred claim; No fountain of forgetfulness Can wet the lips of Fame.

A grief alike to wound and heal, A thought to soothe and pain, The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel To her must still remain.

Good men and true she has not lacked, And brave men yet shall be; The perfect flower, the crowning fact, Of all her years was he!

As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage, What worthier knight was found To grace in Arthur's golden age The fabled Table Round?

A voice, the battle's trumpet-note, To welcome and restore; A hand, that all unwilling smote, To heal and build once more;

A soul of fire, a tender heart Too warm for hate, he knew The generous victor's graceful part To sheathe the sword he drew.

When Earth, as if on evil dreams, Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams From the red disk of Mars,

His fame who led the stormy van Of battle well may cease, But never that which crowns the man Whose victory was Peace.

Mourn, Essex, on thy sea-blown shore Thy beautiful and brave, Whose failing hand the olive bore, Whose dying lips forgave!

Let age lament the youthful chief, And tender eyes be dim; The tears are more of joy than grief That fall for one like him!

1878.



BAYARD TAYLOR.

I. "And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?" My sister asked our guest one winter's day. Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way Common to both: "Wherever thou shall send! What wouldst thou have me see for thee?" She laughed, Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-fire's glow "Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low, Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishing-craft." "All these and more I soon shall see for thee!" He answered cheerily: and he kept his pledge On Lapland snows, the North Cape's windy wedge, And Tromso freezing in its winter sea. He went and came. But no man knows the track Of his last journey, and he comes not back!

II. He brought us wonders of the new and old; We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent To him its story-telling secret lent. And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told. His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure, In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought; From humble home-lays to the heights of thought Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure. How, with the generous pride that friendship hath, We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown Of civic honor on his brows pressed down, Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death. And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears Two nations speak, we answer but with tears!

III. O Vale of Chester! trod by him so oft, Green as thy June turf keep his memory. Let Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget, Nor winds that blow round lonely Cedarcroft; Let the home voices greet him in the far, Strange land that holds him; let the messages Of love pursue him o'er the chartless seas And unmapped vastness of his unknown star Love's language, heard beyond the loud discourse Of perishable fame, in every sphere Itself interprets; and its utterance here Somewhere in God's unfolding universe Shall reach our traveller, softening the surprise Of his rapt gaze on unfamiliar skies!

1879.



OUR AUTOCRAT.

Read at the breakfast given in honor of Dr. Holmes by the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly, December 3, 1879.

His laurels fresh from song and lay, Romance, art, science, rich in all, And young of heart, how dare we say We keep his seventieth festival?

No sense is here of loss or lack; Before his sweetness and his light The dial holds its shadow back, The charmed hours delay their flight.

His still the keen analysis Of men and moods, electric wit, Free play of mirth, and tenderness To heal the slightest wound from it.

And his the pathos touching all Life's sins and sorrows and regrets, Its hopes and fears, its final call And rest beneath the violets.

His sparkling surface scarce betrays The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled, The wisdom of the latter days, And tender memories of the old.

What shapes and fancies, grave or gay, Before us at his bidding come The Treadmill tramp, the One-Horse Shay, The dumb despair of Elsie's doom!

The tale of Avis and the Maid, The plea for lips that cannot speak, The holy kiss that Iris laid On Little Boston's pallid cheek!

Long may he live to sing for us His sweetest songs at evening time, And, like his Chambered Nautilus, To holier heights of beauty climb,

Though now unnumbered guests surround The table that he rules at will, Its Autocrat, however crowned, Is but our friend and comrade still.

The world may keep his honored name, The wealth of all his varied powers; A stronger claim has love than fame, And he himself is only ours!



WITHIN THE GATE. L. M. C.

I have more fully expressed my admiration and regard for Lydia Maria Child in the biographical introduction which I wrote for the volume of Letters, published after her death.

We sat together, last May-day, and talked Of the dear friends who walked Beside us, sharers of the hopes and fears Of five and forty years,

Since first we met in Freedom's hope forlorn, And heard her battle-horn Sound through the valleys of the sleeping North, Calling her children forth,

And youth pressed forward with hope-lighted eyes, And age, with forecast wise Of the long strife before the triumph won, Girded his armor on.

Sadly, ass name by name we called the roll, We heard the dead-bells toll For the unanswering many, and we knew The living were the few.

And we, who waited our own call before The inevitable door, Listened and looked, as all have done, to win Some token from within.

No sign we saw, we heard no voices call; The impenetrable wall Cast down its shadow, like an awful doubt, On all who sat without.

Of many a hint of life beyond the veil, And many a ghostly tale Wherewith the ages spanned the gulf between The seen and the unseen,

Seeking from omen, trance, and dream to gain Solace to doubtful pain, And touch, with groping hands, the garment hem Of truth sufficing them,

We talked; and, turning from the sore unrest Of an all-baffling quest, We thought of holy lives that from us passed Hopeful unto the last,

As if they saw beyond the river of death, Like Him of Nazareth, The many mansions of the Eternal days Lift up their gates of praise.

And, hushed to silence by a reverent awe, Methought, O friend, I saw In thy true life of word, and work, and thought The proof of all we sought.

Did we not witness in the life of thee Immortal prophecy? And feel, when with thee, that thy footsteps trod An everlasting road?

Not for brief days thy generous sympathies, Thy scorn of selfish ease; Not for the poor prize of an earthly goal Thy strong uplift of soul.

Than thine was never turned a fonder heart To nature and to art In fair-formed Hellas in her golden prime, Thy Philothea's time.

Yet, loving beauty, thou couldst pass it by, And for the poor deny Thyself, and see thy fresh, sweet flower of fame Wither in blight and blame.

Sharing His love who holds in His embrace The lowliest of our race, Sure the Divine economy must be Conservative of thee!

For truth must live with truth, self-sacrifice Seek out its great allies; Good must find good by gravitation sure, And love with love endure.

And so, since thou hast passed within the gate Whereby awhile I wait, I give blind grief and blinder sense the lie Thou hast not lived to die!

1881.



IN MEMORY. JAMES T. FIELDS.

As a guest who may not stay Long and sad farewells to say Glides with smiling face away,

Of the sweetness and the zest Of thy happy life possessed Thou hast left us at thy best.

Warm of heart and clear of brain, Of thy sun-bright spirit's wane Thou hast spared us all the pain.

Now that thou hast gone away, What is left of one to say Who was open as the day?

What is there to gloss or shun? Save with kindly voices none Speak thy name beneath the sun.

Safe thou art on every side, Friendship nothing finds to hide, Love's demand is satisfied.

Over manly strength and worth, At thy desk of toil, or hearth, Played the lambent light of mirth,—

Mirth that lit, but never burned; All thy blame to pity turned; Hatred thou hadst never learned.

Every harsh and vexing thing At thy home-fire lost its sting; Where thou wast was always spring.

And thy perfect trust in good, Faith in man and womanhood, Chance and change and time, withstood.

Small respect for cant and whine, Bigot's zeal and hate malign, Had that sunny soul of thine.

But to thee was duty's claim Sacred, and thy lips became Reverent with one holy Name.

Therefore, on thy unknown way, Go in God's peace! We who stay But a little while delay.

Keep for us, O friend, where'er Thou art waiting, all that here Made thy earthly presence dear;

Something of thy pleasant past On a ground of wonder cast, In the stiller waters glassed!

Keep the human heart of thee; Let the mortal only be Clothed in immortality.

And when fall our feet as fell Thine upon the asphodel, Let thy old smile greet us well;

Proving in a world of bliss What we fondly dream in this,— Love is one with holiness!

1881.



WILSON

Read at the Massachusetts Club on the seventieth anniversary the birthday of Vice-President Wilson, February 16, 1882.

The lowliest born of all the land, He wrung from Fate's reluctant hand The gifts which happier boyhood claims; And, tasting on a thankless soil The bitter bread of unpaid toil, He fed his soul with noble aims.

And Nature, kindly provident, To him the future's promise lent; The powers that shape man's destinies, Patience and faith and toil, he knew, The close horizon round him grew, Broad with great possibilities.

By the low hearth-fire's fitful blaze He read of old heroic days, The sage's thought, the patriot's speech; Unhelped, alone, himself he taught, His school the craft at which he wrought, His lore the book within his, reach.

He felt his country's need; he knew The work her children had to do; And when, at last, he heard the call In her behalf to serve and dare, Beside his senatorial chair He stood the unquestioned peer of all.

Beyond the accident of birth He proved his simple manhood's worth; Ancestral pride and classic grace Confessed the large-brained artisan, So clear of sight, so wise in plan And counsel, equal to his place.

With glance intuitive he saw Through all disguise of form and law, And read men like an open book; Fearless and firm, he never quailed Nor turned aside for threats, nor failed To do the thing he undertook.

How wise, how brave, he was, how well He bore himself, let history tell While waves our flag o'er land and sea, No black thread in its warp or weft; He found dissevered States, he left A grateful Nation, strong and free!



THE POET AND THE CHILDREN. LONGFELLOW.

WITH a glory of winter sunshine Over his locks of gray, In the old historic mansion He sat on his last birthday;

With his books and his pleasant pictures, And his household and his kin, While a sound as of myriads singing From far and near stole in.

It came from his own fair city, From the prairie's boundless plain, From the Golden Gate of sunset, And the cedarn woods of Maine.

And his heart grew warm within him, And his moistening eyes grew dim, For he knew that his country's children Were singing the songs of him,

The lays of his life's glad morning, The psalms of his evening time, Whose echoes shall float forever On the winds of every clime.

All their beautiful consolations, Sent forth like birds of cheer, Came flocking back to his windows, And sang in the Poet's ear.

Grateful, but solemn and tender, The music rose and fell With a joy akin to sadness And a greeting like farewell.

With a sense of awe he listened To the voices sweet and young; The last of earth and the first of heaven Seemed in the songs they sung.

And waiting a little longer For the wonderful change to come, He heard the Summoning Angel, Who calls God's children home!

And to him in a holier welcome Was the mystical meaning given Of the words of the blessed Master "Of such is the kingdom of heaven!"

1882



A WELCOME TO LOWELL

Take our hands, James Russell Lowell, Our hearts are all thy own; To-day we bid thee welcome Not for ourselves alone.

In the long years of thy absence Some of us have grown old, And some have passed the portals Of the Mystery untold;

For the hands that cannot clasp thee, For the voices that are dumb, For each and all I bid thee A grateful welcome home!

For Cedarcroft's sweet singer To the nine-fold Muses dear; For the Seer the winding Concord Paused by his door to hear;

For him, our guide and Nestor, Who the march of song began, The white locks of his ninety years Bared to thy winds, Cape Ann!

For him who, to the music Her pines and hemlocks played, Set the old and tender story Of the lorn Acadian maid;

For him, whose voice for freedom Swayed friend and foe at will, Hushed is the tongue of silver, The golden lips are still!

For her whose life of duty At scoff and menace smiled, Brave as the wife of Roland, Yet gentle as a Child.

And for him the three-hilled city Shall hold in memory long, Those name is the hint and token Of the pleasant Fields of Song!

For the old friends unforgotten, For the young thou hast not known, I speak their heart-warm greeting; Come back and take thy own!

From England's royal farewells, And honors fitly paid, Come back, dear Russell Lowell, To Elmwood's waiting shade!

Come home with all the garlands That crown of right thy head. I speak for comrades living, I speak for comrades dead!

AMESBURY, 6th mo., 1885.



AN ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL. GEORGE FULLER

Haunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youth Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair Her shapes took color in thy homestead air! How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth! Magician! who from commonest elements Called up divine ideals, clothed upon By mystic lights soft blending into one Womanly grace and child-like innocence. Teacher I thy lesson was not given in vain. Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin; Art's place is sacred: nothing foul therein May crawl or tread with bestial feet profane. If rightly choosing is the painter's test, Thy choice, O master, ever was the best.

1885.



MULFORD.

Author of The Nation and The Republic of God.

Unnoted as the setting of a star He passed; and sect and party scarcely knew When from their midst a sage and seer withdrew To fitter audience, where the great dead are In God's republic of the heart and mind, Leaving no purer, nobler soul behind.

1886.



TO A CAPE ANN SCHOONER

Luck to the craft that bears this name of mine, Good fortune follow with her golden spoon The glazed hat and tarry pantaloon; And wheresoe'er her keel shall cut the brine, Cod, hake and haddock quarrel for her line. Shipped with her crew, whatever wind may blow, Or tides delay, my wish with her shall go, Fishing by proxy. Would that it might show At need her course, in lack of sun and star, Where icebergs threaten, and the sharp reefs are; Lift the blind fog on Anticosti's lee And Avalon's rock; make populous the sea Round Grand Manan with eager finny swarms, Break the long calms, and charm away the storms.

OAK KNOLL, 23 3rd mo., 1886.



SAMUEL J. TILDEN.

GREYSTONE, AUG. 4, 1886.

Once more, O all-adjusting Death! The nation's Pantheon opens wide; Once more a common sorrow saith A strong, wise man has died.

Faults doubtless had he. Had we not Our own, to question and asperse The worth we doubted or forgot Until beside his hearse?

Ambitious, cautious, yet the man To strike down fraud with resolute hand; A patriot, if a partisan, He loved his native land.

So let the mourning bells be rung, The banner droop its folds half way, And while the public pen and tongue Their fitting tribute pay,

Shall we not vow above his bier To set our feet on party lies, And wound no more a living ear With words that Death denies?

1886



OCCASIONAL POEMS



EVA

Suggested by Mrs. Stowe's tale of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and written when the characters in the tale were realities by the fireside of countless American homes.

Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her; Of the form so soft and fair Give to earth the tender care.

For the golden locks of Eva Let the sunny south-land give her Flowery pillow of repose, Orange-bloom and budding rose.

In the better home of Eva Let the shining ones receive her, With the welcome-voiced psalm, Harp of gold and waving palm,

All is light and peace with Eva; There the darkness cometh never; Tears are wiped, and fetters fall. And the Lord is all in all.

Weep no more for happy Eva, Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her; Care and pain and weariness Lost in love so measureless.

Gentle Eva, loving Eva, Child confessor, true believer, Listener at the Master's knee, "Suffer such to come to me."

Oh, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, Lighting all the solemn river, And the blessings of the poor Wafting to the heavenly shore! 1852



A LAY OF OLD TIME.

Written for the Essex County Agricultural Fair, and sung at the banquet at Newburyport, October 2, 1856.

One morning of the first sad Fall, Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall— But on the outer side.

She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit For the chaste garb of old; He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit For Eden's drupes of gold.

Behind them, smiling in the morn, Their forfeit garden lay, Before them, wild with rock and thorn, The desert stretched away.

They heard the air above them fanned, A light step on the sward, And lo! they saw before them stand The angel of the Lord!

"Arise," he said, "why look behind, When hope is all before, And patient hand and willing mind, Your loss may yet restore?

"I leave with you a spell whose power Can make the desert glad, And call around you fruit and flower As fair as Eden had.

"I clothe your hands with power to lift The curse from off your soil; Your very doom shall seem a gift, Your loss a gain through Toil.

"Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, To labor as to play." White glimmering over Eden's trees The angel passed away.

The pilgrims of the world went forth Obedient to the word, And found where'er they tilled the earth A garden of the Lord!

The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit And blushed with plum and pear, And seeded grass and trodden root Grew sweet beneath their care.

We share our primal parents' fate, And, in our turn and day, Look back on Eden's sworded gate As sad and lost as they.

But still for us his native skies The pitying Angel leaves, And leads through Toil to Paradise New Adams and new Eves!



A SONG OF HARVEST

For the Agricultural and Horticultural Exhibition at Amesbury and Salisbury, September 28, 1858.

This day, two hundred years ago, The wild grape by the river's side, And tasteless groundnut trailing low, The table of the woods supplied.

Unknown the apple's red and gold, The blushing tint of peach and pear; The mirror of the Powow told No tale of orchards ripe and rare.

Wild as the fruits he scorned to till, These vales the idle Indian trod; Nor knew the glad, creative skill, The joy of him who toils with God.

O Painter of the fruits and flowers! We thank Thee for thy wise design Whereby these human hands of ours In Nature's garden work with Thine.

And thanks that from our daily need The joy of simple faith is born; That he who smites the summer weed, May trust Thee for the autumn corn.

Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.

For he who blesses most is blest; And God and man shall own his worth Who toils to leave as his bequest An added beauty to the earth.

And, soon or late, to all that sow, The time of harvest shall be given; The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow, If not on earth, at last in heaven.



KENOZA LAKE.

This beautiful lake in East Haverhill was the "Great Pond" the writer's boyhood. In 1859 a movement was made for improving its shores as a public park. At the opening of the park, August 31, 1859, the poem which gave it the name of Kenoza (in Indian language signifying Pickerel) was read.

As Adam did in Paradise, To-day the primal right we claim Fair mirror of the woods and skies, We give to thee a name.

Lake of the pickerel!—let no more The echoes answer back, "Great Pond," But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore And watching hills beyond,

Let Indian ghosts, if such there be Who ply unseen their shadowy lines, Call back the ancient name to thee, As with the voice of pines.

The shores we trod as barefoot boys, The nutted woods we wandered through, To friendship, love, and social joys We consecrate anew.

Here shall the tender song be sung, And memory's dirges soft and low, And wit shall sparkle on the tongue, And mirth shall overflow,

Harmless as summer lightning plays From a low, hidden cloud by night, A light to set the hills ablaze, But not a bolt to smite.

In sunny South and prairied West Are exiled hearts remembering still, As bees their hive, as birds their nest, The homes of Haverhill.

They join us in our rites to-day; And, listening, we may hear, erelong, From inland lake and ocean bay, The echoes of our song.

Kenoza! o'er no sweeter lake Shall morning break or noon-cloud sail,— No fairer face than thine shall take The sunset's golden veil.

Long be it ere the tide of trade Shall break with harsh-resounding din The quiet of thy banks of shade, And hills that fold thee in.

Still let thy woodlands hide the hare, The shy loon sound his trumpet-note, Wing-weary from his fields of air, The wild-goose on thee float.

Thy peace rebuke our feverish stir, Thy beauty our deforming strife; Thy woods and waters minister The healing of their life.

And sinless Mirth, from care released, Behold, unawed, thy mirrored sky, Smiling as smiled on Cana's feast The Master's loving eye.

And when the summer day grows dim, And light mists walk thy mimic sea, Revive in us the thought of Him Who walked on Galilee!



FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL

The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more; The woven wreaths of oak and pine Are dust along the Isthmian shore.

But beauty hath its homage still, And nature holds us still in debt; And woman's grace and household skill, And manhood's toil, are honored yet.

And we, to-day, amidst our flowers And fruits, have come to own again The blessings of the summer hours, The early and the latter rain;

To see our Father's hand once more Reverse for us the plenteous horn Of autumn, filled and running o'er With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!

Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold; Once more with harvest-song and shout Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings, Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves; Her lap is full of goodly things, Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

Oh, favors every year made new! Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent The bounty overruns our due, The fulness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on; We murmur, but the corn-ears fill, We choose the shadow, but the sun That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soil The power to make it Eden-fair, And richer fruits to crown our toil Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at his lot to-day? Who scorns his native fruit and bloom? Or sighs for dainties far away, Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm Can change a rocky soil to gold,— That brave and generous lives can warm A clime with northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers And piled with fruits, awake again Thanksgivings for the golden hours, The early and the latter rain!

1859



THE QUAKER ALUMNI.

Read at the Friends' School Anniversary, Providence, R. I., 6th mo., 1860.

From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine, Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again; And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool, Play over the old game of going to school.

All your strifes and vexations, your whims and complaints, (You were not saints yourselves, if the children of saints!) All your petty self-seekings and rivalries done, Round the dear Alma Mater your hearts beat as one!

How widely soe'er you have strayed from the fold, Though your "thee" has grown "you," and your drab blue and gold, To the old friendly speech and the garb's sober form, Like the heart of Argyle to the tartan, you warm.

But, the first greetings over, you glance round the hall; Your hearts call the roll, but they answer not all Through the turf green above them the dead cannot hear; Name by name, in the silence, falls sad as a tear!

In love, let us trust, they were summoned so soon rom the morning of life, while we toil through its noon; They were frail like ourselves, they had needs like our own, And they rest as we rest in God's mercy alone.

Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame, Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same; Though we sink in the darkness, His arms break our fall, And in death as in life, He is Father of all!

We are older: our footsteps, so light in the play Of the far-away school-time, move slower to-day;— Here a beard touched with frost, there a bald, shining crown, And beneath the cap's border gray mingles with brown.

But faith should be cheerful, and trust should be glad, And our follies and sins, not our years, make us sad. Should the heart closer shut as the bonnet grows prim, And the face grow in length as the hat grows in brim?

Life is brief, duty grave; but, with rain-folded wings, Of yesterday's sunshine the grateful heart sings; And we, of all others, have reason to pay The tribute of thanks, and rejoice on our way;

For the counsels that turned from the follies of youth; For the beauty of patience, the whiteness of truth; For the wounds of rebuke, when love tempered its edge; For the household's restraint, and the discipline's hedge;

For the lessons of kindness vouchsafed to the least Of the creatures of God, whether human or beast, Bringing hope to the poor, lending strength to the frail, In the lanes of the city, the slave-hut, and jail;

For a womanhood higher and holier, by all Her knowledge of good, than was Eve ere her fall,— Whose task-work of duty moves lightly as play, Serene as the moonlight and warm as the day;

And, yet more, for the faith which embraces the whole, Of the creeds of the ages the life and the soul, Wherein letter and spirit the same channel run, And man has not severed what God has made one!

For a sense of the Goodness revealed everywhere, As sunshine impartial, and free as the air; For a trust in humanity, Heathen or Jew, And a hope for all darkness the Light shineth through.

Who scoffs at our birthright?—the words of the seers, And the songs of the bards in the twilight of years, All the foregleams of wisdom in santon and sage, In prophet and priest, are our true heritage.

The Word which the reason of Plato discerned; The truth, as whose symbol the Mithra-fire burned; The soul of the world which the Stoic but guessed, In the Light Universal the Quaker confessed!

No honors of war to our worthies belong; Their plain stem of life never flowered into song; But the fountains they opened still gush by the way, And the world for their healing is better to-day.

He who lies where the minster's groined arches curve down To the tomb-crowded transept of England's renown, The glorious essayist, by genius enthroned, Whose pen as a sceptre the Muses all owned,—

Who through the world's pantheon walked in his pride, Setting new statues up, thrusting old ones aside, And in fiction the pencils of history dipped, To gild o'er or blacken each saint in his crypt,—

How vainly he labored to sully with blame The white bust of Penn, in the niche of his fame! Self-will is self-wounding, perversity blind On himself fell the stain for the Quaker designed!

For the sake of his true-hearted father before him; For the sake of the dear Quaker mother that bore him; For the sake of his gifts, and the works that outlive him, And his brave words for freedom, we freely forgive him!

There are those who take note that our numbers are small,— New Gibbons who write our decline and our fall; But the Lord of the seed-field takes care of His own, And the world shall yet reap what our sowers have sown.

The last of the sect to his fathers may go, Leaving only his coat for some Barnum to show; But the truth will outlive him, and broaden with years, Till the false dies away, and the wrong disappears.

Nothing fails of its end. Out of sight sinks the stone, In the deep sea of time, but the circles sweep on, Till the low-rippled murmurs along the shores run, And the dark and dead waters leap glad in the sun.

Meanwhile shall we learn, in our ease, to forget To the martyrs of Truth and of Freedom our debt?— Hide their words out of sight, like the garb that they wore, And for Barclay's Apology offer one more?

Shall we fawn round the priestcraft that glutted the shears, And festooned the stocks with our grandfathers' ears? Talk of Woolman's unsoundness? count Penn heterodox? And take Cotton Mather in place of George Fox?

Make our preachers war-chaplains? quote Scripture to take The hunted slave back, for Onesimus' sake? Go to burning church-candles, and chanting in choir, And on the old meeting-house stick up a spire?

No! the old paths we'll keep until better are shown, Credit good where we find it, abroad or our own; And while "Lo here" and "Lo there" the multitude call, Be true to ourselves, and do justice to all.

The good round about us we need not refuse, Nor talk of our Zion as if we were Jews; But why shirk the badge which our fathers have worn, Or beg the world's pardon for having been born?

We need not pray over the Pharisee's prayer, Nor claim that our wisdom is Benjamin's share; Truth to us and to others is equal and one Shall we bottle the free air, or hoard up the sun?

Well know we our birthright may serve but to show How the meanest of weeds in the richest soil grow; But we need not disparage the good which we hold; Though the vessels be earthen, the treasure is gold!

Enough and too much of the sect and the name. What matters our label, so truth be our aim? The creed may be wrong, but the life may be true, And hearts beat the same under drab coats or blue.

So the man be a man, let him worship, at will, In Jerusalem's courts, or on Gerizim's hill. When she makes up her jewels, what cares yon good town For the Baptist of Wayland, the Quaker of Brown?

And this green, favored island, so fresh and seablown, When she counts up the worthies her annals have known, Never waits for the pitiful gaugers of sect To measure her love, and mete out her respect.

Three shades at this moment seem walking her strand, Each with head halo-crowned, and with palms in his hand,— Wise Berkeley, grave Hopkins, and, smiling serene On prelate and puritan, Channing is seen.

One holy name bearing, no longer they need Credentials of party, and pass-words of creed The new song they sing hath a threefold accord, And they own one baptism, one faith, and one Lord!

But the golden sands run out: occasions like these Glide swift into shadow, like sails on the seas While we sport with the mosses and pebbles ashore, They lessen and fade, and we see them no more.

Forgive me, dear friends, if my vagrant thoughts seem Like a school-boy's who idles and plays with his theme. Forgive the light measure whose changes display The sunshine and rain of our brief April day.

There are moments in life when the lip and the eye Try the question of whether to smile or to cry; And scenes and reunions that prompt like our own The tender in feeling, the playful in tone.

I, who never sat down with the boys and the girls At the feet of your Slocums, and Cartlands, and Earles,— By courtesy only permitted to lay On your festival's altar my poor gift, to-day,—

I would joy in your joy: let me have a friend's part In the warmth of your welcome of hand and of heart,— On your play-ground of boyhood unbend the brow's care, And shift the old burdens our shoulders must bear.

Long live the good School! giving out year by year Recruits to true manhood and womanhood dear Brave boys, modest maidens, in beauty sent forth, The living epistles and proof of its worth!

In and out let the young life as steadily flow As in broad Narragansett the tides come and go; And its sons and its daughters in prairie and town Remember its honor, and guard its renown.

Not vainly the gift of its founder was made; Not prayerless the stones of its corner were laid The blessing of Him whom in secret they sought Has owned the good work which the fathers have wrought.

To Him be the glory forever! We bear To the Lord of the Harvest our wheat with the tare. What we lack in our work may He find in our will, And winnow in mercy our good from the ill!



OUR RIVER.

FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT "THE LAURELS" ON THE MERRIMAC.

Jean Pierre Brissot, the famous leader of the Girondist party in the French Revolution, when a young man travelled extensively in the United States. He visited the valley of the Merrimac, and speaks in terms of admiration of the view from Moulton's hill opposite Amesbury. The "Laurel Party" so called, as composed of ladies and gentlemen in the lower valley of the Merrimac, and invited friends and guests in other sections of the country. Its thoroughly enjoyable annual festivals were held in the early summer on the pine-shaded, laurel-blossomed slopes of the Newbury side of the river opposite Pleasant Valley in Amesbury. The several poems called out by these gatherings are here printed in sequence.

Once more on yonder laurelled height The summer flowers have budded; Once more with summer's golden light The vales of home are flooded; And once more, by the grace of Him Of every good the Giver, We sing upon its wooded rim The praises of our river,

Its pines above, its waves below, The west-wind down it blowing, As fair as when the young Brissot Beheld it seaward flowing,— And bore its memory o'er the deep, To soothe a martyr's sadness, And fresco, hi his troubled sleep, His prison-walls with gladness.

We know the world is rich with streams Renowned in song and story, Whose music murmurs through our dreams Of human love and glory We know that Arno's banks are fair, And Rhine has castled shadows, And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr Go singing down their meadows.

But while, unpictured and unsung By painter or by poet, Our river waits the tuneful tongue And cunning hand to show it,— We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine Awakes to our caressing.

No fickle sun-god holds the flocks That graze its shores in keeping; No icy kiss of Dian mocks The youth beside it sleeping Our Christian river loveth most The beautiful and human; The heathen streams of Naiads boast, But ours of man and woman.

The miner in his cabin hears The ripple we are hearing; It whispers soft to homesick ears Around the settler's clearing In Sacramento's vales of corn, Or Santee's bloom of cotton, Our river by its valley-born Was never yet forgotten.

The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills The summer air with clangor; The war-storm shakes the solid hills Beneath its tread of anger; Young eyes that last year smiled in ours Now point the rifle's barrel, And hands then stained with fruits and flowers Bear redder stains of quarrel.

But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on, And rivers still keep flowing, The dear God still his rain and sun On good and ill bestowing. His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!" His flowers are prophesying That all we dread of change or fate His live is underlying.

And thou, O Mountain-born!—no more We ask the wise Allotter Than for the firmness of thy shore, The calmness of thy water, The cheerful lights that overlay, Thy rugged slopes with beauty, To match our spirits to our day And make a joy of duty.

1861.



REVISITED.

Read at "The Laurels," on the Merrimac, 6th month, 1865.

The roll of drums and the bugle's wailing Vex the air of our vales-no more; The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning, The share is the sword the soldier wore!

Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river, Under thy banks of laurel bloom; Softly and sweet, as the hour beseemeth, Sing us the songs of peace and home.

Let all the tenderer voices of nature Temper the triumph and chasten mirth, Full of the infinite love and pity For fallen martyr and darkened hearth.

But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes, And the oil of joy for mourning long, Let thy hills give thanks, and all thy waters Break into jubilant waves of song!

Bring us the airs of hills and forests, The sweet aroma of birch and pine, Give us a waft of the north-wind laden With sweethrier odors and breath of kine!

Bring us the purple of mountain sunsets, Shadows of clouds that rake the hills, The green repose of thy Plymouth meadows, The gleam and ripple of Campton rills.

Lead us away in shadow and sunshine, Slaves of fancy, through all thy miles, The winding ways of Pemigewasset, And Winnipesaukee's hundred isles.

Shatter in sunshine over thy ledges, Laugh in thy plunges from fall to fall; Play with thy fringes of elms, and darken Under the shade of the mountain wall.

The cradle-song of thy hillside fountains Here in thy glory and strength repeat; Give us a taste of thy upland music, Show us the dance of thy silver feet.

Into thy dutiful life of uses Pour the music and weave the flowers; With the song of birds and bloom of meadows Lighten and gladden thy heart and ours.

Sing on! bring down, O lowland river, The joy of the hills to the waiting sea; The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains, The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.

Here, in the calm of thy seaward, valley, Mirth and labor shall hold their truce; Dance of water and mill of grinding, Both are beauty and both are use.

Type of the Northland's strength and glory, Pride and hope of our home and race,— Freedom lending to rugged labor Tints of beauty and lines of grace.

Once again, O beautiful river, Hear our greetings and take our thanks; Hither we come, as Eastern pilgrims Throng to the Jordan's sacred banks.

For though by the Master's feet untrodden, Though never His word has stilled thy waves, Well for us may thy shores be holy, With Christian altars and saintly graves.

And well may we own thy hint and token Of fairer valleys and streams than these, Where the rivers of God are full of water, And full of sap are His healing trees!



"THE LAURELS"

At the twentieth and last anniversary.

FROM these wild rocks I look to-day O'er leagues of dancing waves, and see The far, low coast-line stretch away To where our river meets the sea.

The light wind blowing off the land Is burdened with old voices; through Shut eyes I see how lip and hand The greeting of old days renew.

O friends whose hearts still keep their prime, Whose bright example warms and cheers, Ye teach us how to smile at Time, And set to music all his years!

I thank you for sweet summer days, For pleasant memories lingering long, For joyful meetings, fond delays, And ties of friendship woven strong.

As for the last time, side by side, You tread the paths familiar grown, I reach across the severing tide, And blend my farewells with your own.

Make room, O river of our home! For other feet in place of ours, And in the summers yet to come, Make glad another Feast of Flowers!

Hold in thy mirror, calm and deep, The pleasant pictures thou hast seen; Forget thy lovers not, but keep Our memory like thy laurels green.

ISLES of SHOALS, 7th mo., 1870.



JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC.

O dwellers in the stately towns, What come ye out to see? This common earth, this common sky, This water flowing free?

As gayly as these kalmia flowers Your door-yard blossoms spring; As sweetly as these wild-wood birds Your caged minstrels sing.

You find but common bloom and green, The rippling river's rune, The beauty which is everywhere Beneath the skies of June;

The Hawkswood oaks, the storm-torn plumes Of old pine-forest kings, Beneath whose century-woven shade Deer Island's mistress sings.

And here are pictured Artichoke, And Curson's bowery mill; And Pleasant Valley smiles between The river and the hill.

You know full well these banks of bloom, The upland's wavy line, And how the sunshine tips with fire The needles of the pine.

Yet, like some old remembered psalm, Or sweet, familiar face, Not less because of commonness You love the day and place.

And not in vain in this soft air Shall hard-strung nerves relax, Not all in vain the o'erworn brain Forego its daily tax.

The lust of power, the greed of gain Have all the year their own; The haunting demons well may let Our one bright day alone.

Unheeded let the newsboy call, Aside the ledger lay The world will keep its treadmill step Though we fall out to-day.

The truants of life's weary school, Without excuse from thrift We change for once the gains of toil For God's unpurchased gift.

From ceiled rooms, from silent books, From crowded car and town, Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap, We lay our tired heads down.

Cool, summer wind, our heated brows; Blue river, through the green Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes Which all too much have seen.

For us these pleasant woodland ways Are thronged with memories old, Have felt the grasp of friendly hands And heard love's story told.

A sacred presence overbroods The earth whereon we meet; These winding forest-paths are trod By more than mortal feet.

Old friends called from us by the voice Which they alone could hear, From mystery to mystery, From life to life, draw near.

More closely for the sake of them Each other's hands we press; Our voices take from them a tone Of deeper tenderness.

Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours, Alike below, above, Or here or there, about us fold The arms of one great love!

We ask to-day no countersign, No party names we own; Unlabelled, individual, We bring ourselves alone.

What cares the unconventioned wood For pass-words of the town? The sound of fashion's shibboleth The laughing waters drown.

Here cant forgets his dreary tone, And care his face forlorn; The liberal air and sunshine laugh The bigot's zeal to scorn.

From manhood's weary shoulder falls His load of selfish cares; And woman takes her rights as flowers And brooks and birds take theirs.

The license of the happy woods, The brook's release are ours; The freedom of the unshamed wind Among the glad-eyed flowers.

Yet here no evil thought finds place, Nor foot profane comes in; Our grove, like that of Samothrace, Is set apart from sin.

We walk on holy ground; above A sky more holy smiles; The chant of the beatitudes Swells down these leafy aisles.

Thanks to the gracious Providence That brings us here once more; For memories of the good behind And hopes of good before.

And if, unknown to us, sweet days Of June like this must come, Unseen of us these laurels clothe The river-banks with bloom;

And these green paths must soon be trod By other feet than ours, Full long may annual pilgrims come To keep the Feast of Flowers;

The matron be a girl once more, The bearded man a boy, And we, in heaven's eternal June, Be glad for earthly joy!

1876.



HYMN

FOR THE OPENING OF THOMAS STARR KING'S HOUSE OF WORSHIP, 1864.

The poetic and patriotic preacher, who had won fame in the East, went to California in 1860 and became a power on the Pacific coast. It was not long after the opening of the house of worship built for him that he died.

Amidst these glorious works of Thine, The solemn minarets of the pine, And awful Shasta's icy shrine,—

Where swell Thy hymns from wave and gale, And organ-thunders never fail, Behind the cataract's silver veil,

Our puny walls to Thee we raise, Our poor reed-music sounds Thy praise: Forgive, O Lord, our childish ways!

For, kneeling on these altar-stairs, We urge Thee not with selfish prayers, Nor murmur at our daily cares.

Before Thee, in an evil day, Our country's bleeding heart we lay, And dare not ask Thy hand to stay;

But, through the war-cloud, pray to Thee For union, but a union free, With peace that comes of purity!

That Thou wilt bare Thy arm to, save And, smiting through this Red Sea wave, Make broad a pathway for the slave!

For us, confessing all our need, We trust nor rite nor word nor deed, Nor yet the broken staff of creed.

Assured alone that Thou art good To each, as to the multitude, Eternal Love and Fatherhood,—

Weak, sinful, blind, to Thee we kneel, Stretch dumbly forth our hands, and feel Our weakness is our strong appeal.

So, by these Western gates of Even We wait to see with Thy forgiven The opening Golden Gate of Heaven!

Suffice it now. In time to be Shall holier altars rise to Thee,— Thy Church our broad humanity

White flowers of love its walls shall climb, Soft bells of peace shall ring its chime, Its days shall all be holy time.

A sweeter song shall then be heard,— The music of the world's accord Confessing Christ, the Inward Word!

That song shall swell from shore to shore, One hope, one faith, one love, restore The seamless robe that Jesus wore.



HYMN

FOR THE HOUSE OF WORSHIP AT GEORGETOWN, ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER.

The giver of the house was the late George Peabody, of London.

Thou dwellest not, O Lord of all In temples which thy children raise; Our work to thine is mean and small, And brief to thy eternal days.

Forgive the weakness and the pride, If marred thereby our gift may be, For love, at least, has sanctified The altar that we rear to thee.

The heart and not the hand has wrought From sunken base to tower above The image of a tender thought, The memory of a deathless love!

And though should never sound of speech Or organ echo from its wall, Its stones would pious lessons teach, Its shade in benedictions fall.

Here should the dove of peace be found, And blessings and not curses given; Nor strife profane, nor hatred wound, The mingled loves of earth and heaven.

Thou, who didst soothe with dying breath The dear one watching by Thy cross, Forgetful of the pains of death In sorrow for her mighty loss,

In memory of that tender claim, O Mother-born, the offering take, And make it worthy of Thy name, And bless it for a mother's sake!

1868.



A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION.

Read at the President's Levee, Brown University, 29th 6th month, 1870.

To-day the plant by Williams set Its summer bloom discloses; The wilding sweethrier of his prayers Is crowned with cultured roses.

Once more the Island State repeats The lesson that he taught her, And binds his pearl of charity Upon her brown-locked daughter.

Is 't fancy that he watches still His Providence plantations? That still the careful Founder takes A part on these occasions.

Methinks I see that reverend form, Which all of us so well know He rises up to speak; he jogs The presidential elbow.

"Good friends," he says, "you reap a field I sowed in self-denial, For toleration had its griefs And charity its trial.

"Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More, To him must needs be given Who heareth heresy and leaves The heretic to Heaven!

"I hear again the snuffled tones, I see in dreary vision Dyspeptic dreamers, spiritual bores, And prophets with a mission.

"Each zealot thrust before my eyes His Scripture-garbled label; All creeds were shouted in my ears As with the tongues of Babel.

"Scourged at one cart-tail, each denied The hope of every other; Each martyr shook his branded fist At the conscience of his brother!

"How cleft the dreary drone of man. The shriller pipe of woman, As Gorton led his saints elect, Who held all things in common!

"Their gay robes trailed in ditch and swamp, And torn by thorn and thicket, The dancing-girls of Merry Mount Came dragging to my wicket.

"Shrill Anabaptists, shorn of ears; Gray witch-wives, hobbling slowly; And Antinomians, free of law, Whose very sins were holy.

"Hoarse ranters, crazed Fifth Monarchists, Of stripes and bondage braggarts, Pale Churchmen, with singed rubrics snatched From Puritanic fagots.

"And last, not least, the Quakers came, With tongues still sore from burning, The Bay State's dust from off their feet Before my threshold spurning;

"A motley host, the Lord's debris, Faith's odds and ends together; Well might I shrink from guests with lungs Tough as their breeches leather

"If, when the hangman at their heels Came, rope in hand to catch them, I took the hunted outcasts in, I never sent to fetch them.

"I fed, but spared them not a whit; I gave to all who walked in, Not clams and succotash alone, But stronger meat of doctrine.

"I proved the prophets false, I pricked The bubble of perfection, And clapped upon their inner light The snuffers of election.

"And looking backward on my times, This credit I am taking; I kept each sectary's dish apart, No spiritual chowder making.

"Where now the blending signs of sect Would puzzle their assorter, The dry-shod Quaker kept the land, The Baptist held the water.

"A common coat now serves for both, The hat's no more a fixture; And which was wet and which was dry, Who knows in such a mixture?

"Well! He who fashioned Peter's dream To bless them all is able; And bird and beast and creeping thing Make clean upon His table!

"I walked by my own light; but when The ways of faith divided, Was I to force unwilling feet To tread the path that I did?

"I touched the garment-hem of truth, Yet saw not all its splendor; I knew enough of doubt to feel For every conscience tender.

"God left men free of choice, as when His Eden-trees were planted; Because they chose amiss, should I Deny the gift He granted?

"So, with a common sense of need, Our common weakness feeling, I left them with myself to God And His all-gracious dealing!

"I kept His plan whose rain and sun To tare and wheat are given; And if the ways to hell were free, I left then free to heaven!"

Take heart with us, O man of old, Soul-freedom's brave confessor, So love of God and man wax strong, Let sect and creed be lesser.

The jarring discords of thy day In ours one hymn are swelling; The wandering feet, the severed paths, All seek our Father's dwelling.

And slowly learns the world the truth That makes us all thy debtor,— That holy life is more than rite, And spirit more than letter;

That they who differ pole-wide serve Perchance the common Master, And other sheep He hath than they Who graze one narrow pasture!

For truth's worst foe is he who claims To act as God's avenger, And deems, beyond his sentry-beat, The crystal walls in danger!

Who sets for heresy his traps Of verbal quirk and quibble, And weeds the garden of the Lord With Satan's borrowed dibble.

To-day our hearts like organ keys One Master's touch are feeling; The branches of a common Vine Have only leaves of healing.

Co-workers, yet from varied fields, We share this restful nooning; The Quaker with the Baptist here Believes in close communing.

Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone, Too light for thy deserving; Thanks for thy generous faith in man, Thy trust in God unswerving.

Still echo in the hearts of men The words that thou hast spoken; No forge of hell can weld again The fetters thou hast broken.

The pilgrim needs a pass no more From Roman or Genevan; Thought-free, no ghostly tollman keeps Henceforth the road to Heaven!



CHICAGO

The great fire at Chicago was on 8-10 October, 1871.

Men said at vespers: "All is well!" In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain Before the fiery hurricane.

On threescore spires had sunset shone, Where ghastly sunrise looked on none. Men clasped each other's hands, and said "The City of the West is dead!"

Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat, The fiends of fire from street to street, Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare, The dumb defiance of despair.

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire That signalled round that sea of fire; Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came; In tears of pity died the flame!

From East, from West, from South and North, The messages of hope shot forth, And, underneath the severing wave, The world, full-handed, reached to save.

Fair seemed the old; but fairer still The new, the dreary void shall fill With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, For love shall lay each corner-stone.

Rise, stricken city! from thee throw The ashen sackcloth of thy woe; And build, as to Amphion's strain, To songs of cheer thy walls again!

How shrivelled in thy hot distress The primal sin of selfishness! How instant rose, to take thy part, The angel in the human heart!

Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed Above thy dreadful holocaust; The Christ again has preached through thee The Gospel of Humanity!

Then lift once more thy towers on high, And fret with spires the western sky, To tell that God is yet with us, And love is still miraculous!

1871.



KINSMAN.

Died at the Island of Panay (Philippine group), aged nineteen years.

Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines, As sweetly shall the loved one rest, As if beneath the whispering pines And maple shadows of the West.

Ye mourn, O hearts of home! for him, But, haply, mourn ye not alone; For him shall far-off eyes be dim, And pity speak in tongues unknown.

There needs no graven line to give The story of his blameless youth; All hearts shall throb intuitive, And nature guess the simple truth.

The very meaning of his name Shall many a tender tribute win; The stranger own his sacred claim, And all the world shall be his kin.

And there, as here, on main and isle, The dews of holy peace shall fall, The same sweet heavens above him smile, And God's dear love be over all 1874.



THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF LONGWOOD.

Longwood, not far from Bayard Taylor's birthplace in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, was the home of my esteemed friends John and Hannah Cox, whose golden wedding was celebrated in 1874.

With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow, The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.

And, sweet as has life's vintage been through all your pleasant past, Still, as at Cana's marriage-feast, the best wine is the last!

Again before me, with your names, fair Chester's landscape comes, Its meadows, woods, and ample barns, and quaint, stone-builded homes.

The smooth-shorn vales, the wheaten slopes, the boscage green and soft, Of which their poet sings so well from towered Cedarcroft.

And lo! from all the country-side come neighbors, kith and kin; From city, hamlet, farm-house old, the wedding guests come in.

And they who, without scrip or purse, mob-hunted, travel-worn, In Freedom's age of martyrs came, as victors now return.

Older and slower, yet the same, files in the long array, And hearts are light and eyes are glad, though heads are badger-gray.

The fire-tried men of Thirty-eight who saw with me the fall, Midst roaring flames and shouting mob, of Pennsylvania Hall;

And they of Lancaster who turned the cheeks of tyrants pale, Singing of freedom through the grates of Moyamensing jail!

And haply with them, all unseen, old comrades, gone before, Pass, silently as shadows pass, within your open door,—

The eagle face of Lindley Coates, brave Garrett's daring zeal, Christian grace of Pennock, the steadfast heart of Neal.

Ah me! beyond all power to name, the worthies tried and true, Grave men, fair women, youth and maid, pass by in hushed review.

Of varying faiths, a common cause fused all their hearts in one. God give them now, whate'er their names, the peace of duty done!

How gladly would I tread again the old-remembered places, Sit down beside your hearth once more and look in the dear old faces!

And thank you for the lessons your fifty years are teaching, For honest lives that louder speak than half our noisy preaching;

For your steady faith and courage in that dark and evil time, When the Golden Rule was treason, and to feed the hungry, crime;

For the poor slave's house of refuge when the hounds were on his track, And saint and sinner, church and state, joined hands to send him back.

Blessings upon you!—What you did for each sad, suffering one, So homeless, faint, and naked, unto our Lord was done!

Fair fall on Kennett's pleasant vales and Longwood's bowery ways The mellow sunset of your lives, friends of my early days.

May many more of quiet years be added to your sum, And, late at last, in tenderest love, the beckoning angel come.

Dear hearts are here, dear hearts are there, alike below, above; Our friends are now in either world, and love is sure of love.

1874.



HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF PLYMOUTH CHURCH, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA.

All things are Thine: no gift have we, Lord of all gifts, to offer Thee; And hence with grateful hearts to-day, Thy own before Thy feet we lay.

Thy will was in the builders' thought; Thy hand unseen amidst us wrought; Through mortal motive, scheme and plan, Thy wise eternal purpose ran.

No lack Thy perfect fulness knew; For human needs and longings grew This house of prayer, this home of rest, In the fair garden of the West.

In weakness and in want we call On Thee for whom the heavens are small; Thy glory is Thy children's good, Thy joy Thy tender Fatherhood.

O Father! deign these walls to bless, Fill with Thy love their emptiness, And let their door a gateway be To lead us from ourselves to Thee!

1872.



LEXINGTON 1775.

No Berserk thirst of blood had they, No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against the alien bayonet Their homespun breasts in that old day.

Their feet had trodden peaceful, ways; They loved not strife, they dreaded pain; They saw not, what to us is plain, That God would make man's wrath his praise.

No seers were they, but simple men; Its vast results the future hid The meaning of the work they did Was strange and dark and doubtful then.

Swift as their summons came they left The plough mid-furrow standing still, The half-ground corn grist in the mill, The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.

They went where duty seemed to call, They scarcely asked the reason why; They only knew they could but die, And death was not the worst of all!

Of man for man the sacrifice, All that was theirs to give, they gave. The flowers that blossomed from their grave Have sown themselves beneath all skies.

Their death-shot shook the feudal tower, And shattered slavery's chain as well; On the sky's dome, as on a bell, Its echo struck the world's great hour.

That fateful echo is not dumb The nations listening to its sound Wait, from a century's vantage-ground, The holier triumphs yet to come,—

The bridal time of Law and Love, The gladness of the world's release, When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace The hawk shall nestle with the dove!—

The golden age of brotherhood Unknown to other rivalries Than of the mild humanities, And gracious interchange of good,

When closer strand shall lean to strand, Till meet, beneath saluting flags, The eagle of our mountain-crags, The lion of our Motherland!

1875.



THE LIBRARY.

Sung at the opening of the Haverhill Library, November 11, 1875.

"Let there be light!" God spake of old, And over chaos dark and cold, And through the dead and formless frame Of nature, life and order came.

Faint was the light at first that shone On giant fern and mastodon, On half-formed plant and beast of prey, And man as rude and wild as they.

Age after age, like waves, o'erran The earth, uplifting brute and man; And mind, at length, in symbols dark Its meanings traced on stone and bark.

On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll, On plastic clay and leathern scroll, Man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed, And to! the Press was found at last!

Then dead souls woke; the thoughts of men Whose bones were dust revived again; The cloister's silence found a tongue, Old prophets spake, old poets sung.

And here, to-day, the dead look down, The kings of mind again we crown; We hear the voices lost so long, The sage's word, the sibyl's song.

Here Greek and Roman find themselves Alive along these crowded shelves; And Shakespeare treads again his stage, And Chaucer paints anew his age.

As if some Pantheon's marbles broke Their stony trance, and lived and spoke, Life thrills along the alcoved hall, The lords of thought await our call!



"I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN."

An incident in St. Augustine, Florida.

'Neath skies that winter never knew The air was full of light and balm, And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew Through orange bloom and groves of palm.

A stranger from the frozen North, Who sought the fount of health in vain, Sank homeless on the alien earth, And breathed the languid air with pain.

God's angel came! The tender shade Of pity made her blue eye dim; Against her woman's breast she laid The drooping, fainting head of him.

She bore him to a pleasant room, Flower-sweet and cool with salt sea air, And watched beside his bed, for whom His far-off sisters might not care.

She fanned his feverish brow and smoothed Its lines of pain with tenderest touch. With holy hymn and prayer she soothed The trembling soul that feared so much.

Through her the peace that passeth sight Came to him, as he lapsed away As one whose troubled dreams of night Slide slowly into tranquil day.

The sweetness of the Land of Flowers Upon his lonely grave she laid The jasmine dropped its golden showers, The orange lent its bloom and shade.

And something whispered in her thought, More sweet than mortal voices be "The service thou for him hast wrought O daughter! hath been done for me."

1875.



CENTENNIAL HYMN.

Written for the opening of the International Exhibition, Philadelphia, May 10, 1876. The music for the hymn was written by John K. Paine, and may be found in The Atlantic Monthly for June, 1876.

I. Our fathers' God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet to-day, united, free, And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one.

II. Here, where of old, by Thy design, The fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of rended bolt and falling chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth our guests we call.

III. Be with us while the New World greets The Old World thronging all its streets, Unveiling all the triumphs won By art or toil beneath the sun; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand and brain.

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

V. For art and labor met in truce, For beauty made the bride of use, We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave The austere virtues strong to save, The honor proof to place or gold, The manhood never bought nor sold.

VI. Oh make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong; Around our gift of freedom draw The safeguards of Thy righteous law And, cast in some diviner mould, Let the new cycle shame the old!



AT SCHOOL-CLOSE. BOWDOIN STREET, BOSTON, 1877.

The end has come, as come it must To all things; in these sweet June days The teacher and the scholar trust Their parting feet to separate ways.

They part: but in the years to be Shall pleasant memories cling to each, As shells bear inland from the sea The murmur of the rhythmic beach.

One knew the joy the sculptor knows When, plastic to his lightest touch, His clay-wrought model slowly grows To that fine grace desired so much.

So daily grew before her eyes The living shapes whereon she wrought, Strong, tender, innocently wise, The child's heart with the woman's thought.

And one shall never quite forget The voice that called from dream and play, The firm but kindly hand that set Her feet in learning's pleasant way,—

The joy of Undine soul-possessed, The wakening sense, the strange delight That swelled the fabled statue's breast And filled its clouded eyes with sight.

O Youth and Beauty, loved of all! Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams; In broader ways your footsteps fall, Ye test the truth of all that seams.

Her little realm the teacher leaves, She breaks her wand of power apart, While, for your love and trust, she gives The warm thanks of a grateful heart.

Hers is the sober summer noon Contrasted with your morn of spring, The waning with the waxing moon, The folded with the outspread wing.

Across the distance of the years She sends her God-speed back to you; She has no thought of doubts or fears Be but yourselves, be pure, be true,

And prompt in duty; heed the deep, Low voice of conscience; through the ill And discord round about you, keep Your faith in human nature still.

Be gentle: unto griefs and needs, Be pitiful as woman should, And, spite of all the lies of creeds, Hold fast the truth that God is good.

Give and receive; go forth and bless The world that needs the hand and heart Of Martha's helpful carefulness No less than Mary's better part.

So shall the stream of time flow by And leave each year a richer good, And matron loveliness outvie The nameless charm of maidenhood.

And, when the world shall link your names With gracious lives and manners fine, The teacher shall assert her claims, And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"



HYMN OF THE CHILDREN.

Sung at the anniversary of the Children's Mission, Boston, 1878.

Thine are all the gifts, O God! Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod, And the starving fed.

Let Thy children, by Thy grace, Give as they abound, Till the poor have breathing-space, And the lost are found.

Wiser than the miser's hoards Is the giver's choice; Sweeter than the song of birds Is the thankful voice.

Welcome smiles on faces sad As the flowers of spring; Let the tender hearts be glad With the joy they bring.

Happier for their pity's sake Make their sports and plays, And from lips of childhood take Thy perfected praise!



THE LANDMARKS.

This poem was read at a meeting of citizens of Boston having for its object the preservation of the Old South Church famous in Colonial and Revolutionary history.

I. THROUGH the streets of Marblehead Fast the red-winged terror sped;

Blasting, withering, on it came, With its hundred tongues of flame,

Where St. Michael's on its way Stood like chained Andromeda,

Waiting on the rock, like her, Swift doom or deliverer!

Church that, after sea-moss grew Over walls no longer new,

Counted generations five, Four entombed and one alive;

Heard the martial thousand tread Battleward from Marblehead;

Saw within the rock-walled bay Treville's liked pennons play,

And the fisher's dory met By the barge of Lafayette,

Telling good news in advance Of the coming fleet of France!

Church to reverend memories, dear, Quaint in desk and chandelier;

Bell, whose century-rusted tongue Burials tolled and bridals rung;

Loft, whose tiny organ kept Keys that Snetzler's hand had swept;

Altar, o'er whose tablet old Sinai's law its thunders rolled!

Suddenly the sharp cry came "Look! St. Michael's is aflame!"

Round the low tower wall the fire Snake-like wound its coil of ire.

Sacred in its gray respect From the jealousies of sect,

"Save it," seemed the thought of all, "Save it, though our roof-trees fall!"

Up the tower the young men sprung; One, the bravest, outward swung

By the rope, whose kindling strands Smoked beneath the holder's hands,

Smiting down with strokes of power Burning fragments from the tower.

Then the gazing crowd beneath Broke the painful pause of breath;

Brave men cheered from street to street, With home's ashes at their feet;

Houseless women kerchiefs waved: "Thank the Lord! St. Michael's saved!"

II. In the heart of Boston town Stands the church of old renown,

From whose walls the impulse went Which set free a continent;

From whose pulpit's oracle Prophecies of freedom fell;

And whose steeple-rocking din Rang the nation's birth-day in!

Standing at this very hour Perilled like St. Michael's tower,

Held not in the clasp of flame, But by mammon's grasping claim.

Shall it be of Boston said She is shamed by Marblehead?

City of our pride! as there, Hast thou none to do and dare?

Life was risked for Michael's shrine; Shall not wealth be staked for thine?

Woe to thee, when men shall search Vainly for the Old South Church;

When from Neck to Boston Stone, All thy pride of place is gone;

When from Bay and railroad car, Stretched before them wide and far,

Men shall only see a great Wilderness of brick and slate,

Every holy spot o'erlaid By the commonplace of trade!

City of our love': to thee Duty is but destiny.

True to all thy record saith, Keep with thy traditions faith;

Ere occasion's overpast, Hold its flowing forelock fast;

Honor still the precedents Of a grand munificence;

In thy old historic way Give, as thou didst yesterday

At the South-land's call, or on Need's demand from fired St. John.

Set thy Church's muffled bell Free the generous deed to tell.

Let thy loyal hearts rejoice In the glad, sonorous voice,

Ringing from the brazen mouth Of the bell of the Old South,—

Ringing clearly, with a will, "What she was is Boston still!"

1879



GARDEN

The American Horticultural Society, 1882.

O painter of the fruits and flowers, We own wise design, Where these human hands of ours May share work of Thine!

Apart from Thee we plant in vain The root and sow the seed; Thy early and Thy later rain, Thy sun and dew we need.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of Earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.

Why search the wide world everywhere For Eden's unknown ground? That garden of the primal pair May nevermore be found.

But, blest by Thee, our patient toil May right the ancient wrong, And give to every clime and soil The beauty lost so long.

Our homestead flowers and fruited trees May Eden's orchard shame; We taste the tempting sweets of these Like Eve, without her blame.

And, North and South and East and West, The pride of every zone, The fairest, rarest, and the best May all be made our own.

Its earliest shrines the young world sought In hill-groves and in bowers, The fittest offerings thither brought Were Thy own fruits and flowers.

And still with reverent hands we cull Thy gifts each year renewed; The good is always beautiful, The beautiful is good.



A GREETING

Read at Harriet Beecher Stowe's seventieth anniversary, June 14, 1882, at a garden party at ex-Governor Claflin's in Newtonville, Mass.

Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours! To her who, in our evil time, Dragged into light the nation's crime With strength beyond the strength of men, And, mightier than their swords, her pen! To her who world-wide entrance gave To the log-cabin of the slave; Made all his wrongs and sorrows known, And all earth's languages his own,— North, South, and East and West, made all The common air electrical, Until the o'ercharged bolts of heaven Blazed down, and every chain was riven!

Welcome from each and all to her Whose Wooing of the Minister Revealed the warm heart of the man Beneath the creed-bound Puritan, And taught the kinship of the love Of man below and God above; To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks; Whose fireside stories, grave or gay, In quaint Sam Lawson's vagrant way, With old New England's flavor rife, Waifs from her rude idyllic life, Are racy as the legends old By Chaucer or Boccaccio told; To her who keeps, through change of place And time, her native strength and grace, Alike where warm Sorrento smiles, Or where, by birchen-shaded isles, Whose summer winds have shivered o'er The icy drift of Labrador, She lifts to light the priceless Pearl Of Harpswell's angel-beckoned girl! To her at threescore years and ten Be tributes of the tongue and pen; Be honor, praise, and heart-thanks given, The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven!

Ah, dearer than the praise that stirs The air to-day, our love is hers! She needs no guaranty of fame Whose own is linked with Freedom's name. Long ages after ours shall keep Her memory living while we sleep; The waves that wash our gray coast lines, The winds that rock the Southern pines, Shall sing of her; the unending years Shall tell her tale in unborn ears. And when, with sins and follies past, Are numbered color-hate and caste, White, black, and red shall own as one The noblest work by woman done.



GODSPEED

Written on the occasion of a voyage made by my friends Annie Fields and Sarah Orne Jewett.

Outbound, your bark awaits you. Were I one Whose prayer availeth much, my wish should be Your favoring trade-wind and consenting sea. By sail or steed was never love outrun, And, here or there, love follows her in whom All graces and sweet charities unite, The old Greek beauty set in holier light; And her for whom New England's byways bloom, Who walks among us welcome as the Spring, Calling up blossoms where her light feet stray. God keep you both, make beautiful your way, Comfort, console, and bless; and safely bring, Ere yet I make upon a vaster sea The unreturning voyage, my friends to me.

1882.



WINTER ROSES.

In reply to a flower gift from Mrs. Putnam's school at Jamaica Plain.

My garden roses long ago Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks; Their pale, fair sisters smile no more Upon the sweet-brier stalks.

Gone with the flower-time of my life, Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride, And Nature's winter and my own Stand, flowerless, side by side.

So might I yesterday have sung; To-day, in bleak December's noon, Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues, The rosy wealth of June!

Bless the young bands that culled the gift, And bless the hearts that prompted it; If undeserved it comes, at least It seems not all unfit.

Of old my Quaker ancestors Had gifts of forty stripes save one; To-day as many roses crown The gray head of their son.

And with them, to my fancy's eye, The fresh-faced givers smiling come, And nine and thirty happy girls Make glad a lonely room.

They bring the atmosphere of youth; The light and warmth of long ago Are in my heart, and on my cheek The airs of morning blow.

O buds of girlhood, yet unblown, And fairer than the gift ye chose, For you may years like leaves unfold The heart of Sharon's rose.

1883.



THE REUNION

Read September 10, 1885, to the surviving students of Haverhill Academy in 1827-1830.

The gulf of seven and fifty years We stretch our welcoming hands across; The distance but a pebble's toss Between us and our youth appears.

For in life's school we linger on The remnant of a once full list; Conning our lessons, undismissed, With faces to the setting sun.

And some have gone the unknown way, And some await the call to rest; Who knoweth whether it is best For those who went or those who stay?

And yet despite of loss and ill, If faith and love and hope remain, Our length of days is not in vain, And life is well worth living still.

Still to a gracious Providence The thanks of grateful hearts are due, For blessings when our lives were new, For all the good vouchsafed us since.

The pain that spared us sorer hurt, The wish denied, the purpose crossed, And pleasure's fond occasions lost, Were mercies to our small desert.

'T is something that we wander back, Gray pilgrims, to our ancient ways, And tender memories of old days Walk with us by the Merrimac;

That even in life's afternoon A sense of youth comes back again, As through this cool September rain The still green woodlands dream of June.

The eyes grown dim to present things Have keener sight for bygone years, And sweet and clear, in deafening ears, The bird that sang at morning sings.

Dear comrades, scattered wide and far, Send from their homes their kindly word, And dearer ones, unseen, unheard, Smile on us from some heavenly star.

For life and death with God are one, Unchanged by seeming change His care And love are round us here and there; He breaks no thread His hand has spun.

Soul touches soul, the muster roll Of life eternal has no gaps; And after half a century's lapse Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.

Hail and farewell! We go our way; Where shadows end, we trust in light; The star that ushers in the night Is herald also of the day!



NORUMBEGA HALL.

Norumbega Hall at Wellesley College, named in honor of Eben Norton Horsford, who has been one of the most munificent patrons of that noble institution, and who had just published an essay claiming the discovery of the site of the somewhat mythical city of Norumbega, was opened with appropriate ceremonies, in April, 1886. The following sonnet was written for the occasion, and was read by President Alice E. Freeman, to whom it was addressed.

Not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide Of Naumkeag's haven rises and retires, The vision tarried; but somewhere we knew The beautiful gates must open to our quest, Somewhere that marvellous City of the West Would lift its towers and palace domes in view, And, to! at last its mystery is made known— Its only dwellers maidens fair and young, Its Princess such as England's Laureate sung; And safe from capture, save by love alone, It lends its beauty to the lake's green shore, And Norumbega is a myth no more.



THE BARTHOLDI STATUE 1886

The land, that, from the rule of kings, In freeing us, itself made free, Our Old World Sister, to us brings Her sculptured Dream of Liberty,

Unlike the shapes on Egypt's sands Uplifted by the toil-worn slave, On Freedom's soil with freemen's hands We rear the symbol free hands gave.

O France, the beautiful! to thee Once more a debt of love we owe In peace beneath thy Colors Three, We hail a later Rochambeau!

Rise, stately Symbol! holding forth Thy light and hope to all who sit In chains and darkness! Belt the earth With watch-fires from thy torch uplit!

Reveal the primal mandate still Which Chaos heard and ceased to be, Trace on mid-air th' Eternal Will In signs of fire: "Let man be free!"

Shine far, shine free, a guiding light To Reason's ways and Virtue's aim, A lightning-flash the wretch to smite Who shields his license with thy name!



ONE OF THE SIGNERS.

Written for the unveiling of the statue of Josiah Bartlett at Amesbury, Mass., July 4, 1888. Governor Bartlett, who was a native of the town, was a signer of the Declaration of Independence. Amesbury or Ambresbury, so called from the "anointed stones" of the great Druidical temple near it, was the seat of one of the earliest religious houses in Britain. The tradition that the guilty wife of King Arthur fled thither for protection forms one of the finest passages in Tennyson's Idyls of the King.

O storied vale of Merrimac Rejoice through all thy shade and shine, And from his century's sleep call back A brave and honored son of thine.

Unveil his effigy between The living and the dead to-day; The fathers of the Old Thirteen Shall witness bear as spirits may.

Unseen, unheard, his gray compeers The shades of Lee and Jefferson, Wise Franklin reverend with his years And Carroll, lord of Carrollton!

Be thine henceforth a pride of place Beyond thy namesake's over-sea, Where scarce a stone is left to trace The Holy House of Amesbury.

A prouder memory lingers round The birthplace of thy true man here Than that which haunts the refuge found By Arthur's mythic Guinevere.

The plain deal table where he sat And signed a nation's title-deed Is dearer now to fame than that Which bore the scroll of Runnymede.

Long as, on Freedom's natal morn, Shall ring the Independence bells, Give to thy dwellers yet unborn The lesson which his image tells.

For in that hour of Destiny, Which tried the men of bravest stock, He knew the end alone must be A free land or a traitor's block.

Among those picked and chosen men Than his, who here first drew his breath, No firmer fingers held the pen Which wrote for liberty or death.

Not for their hearths and homes alone, But for the world their work was done; On all the winds their thought has flown Through all the circuit of the sun.

We trace its flight by broken chains, By songs of grateful Labor still; To-day, in all her holy fanes, It rings the bells of freed Brazil.

O hills that watched his boyhood's home, O earth and air that nursed him, give, In this memorial semblance, room To him who shall its bronze outlive!

And thou, O Land he loved, rejoice That in the countless years to come, Whenever Freedom needs a voice, These sculptured lips shall not be dumb!



THE TENT ON THE BEACH

It can scarcely be necessary to name as the two companions whom I reckoned with myself in this poetical picnic, Fields the lettered magnate, and Taylor the free cosmopolite. The long line of sandy beach which defines almost the whole of the New Hampshire sea-coast is especially marked near its southern extremity, by the salt-meadows of Hampton. The Hampton River winds through these meadows, and the reader may, if he choose, imagine my tent pitched near its mouth, where also was the scene of the Wreck of Rivermouth. The green bluff to the northward is Great Boar's Head; southward is the Merrimac, with Newburyport lifting its steeples above brown roofs and green trees on banks.

I would not sin, in this half-playful strain,— Too light perhaps for serious years, though born Of the enforced leisure of slow pain,— Against the pure ideal which has drawn My feet to follow its far-shining gleam. A simple plot is mine: legends and runes Of credulous days, old fancies that have lain Silent, from boyhood taking voice again, Warmed into life once more, even as the tunes That, frozen in the fabled hunting-horn, Thawed into sound:—a winter fireside dream Of dawns and-sunsets by the summer sea, Whose sands are traversed by a silent throng Of voyagers from that vaster mystery Of which it is an emblem;—and the dear Memory of one who might have tuned my song To sweeter music by her delicate ear.

When heats as of a tropic clime Burned all our inland valleys through, Three friends, the guests of summer time, Pitched their white tent where sea-winds blew. Behind them, marshes, seamed and crossed With narrow creeks, and flower-embossed, Stretched to the dark oak wood, whose leafy arms Screened from the stormy East the pleasant inland farms.

At full of tide their bolder shore Of sun-bleached sand the waters beat; At ebb, a smooth and glistening floor They touched with light, receding feet. Northward a 'green bluff broke the chain Of sand-hills; southward stretched a plain Of salt grass, with a river winding down, Sail-whitened, and beyond the steeples of the town,

Whence sometimes, when the wind was light And dull the thunder of the beach, They heard the bells of morn and night Swing, miles away, their silver speech. Above low scarp and turf-grown wall They saw the fort-flag rise and fall; And, the first star to signal twilight's hour, The lamp-fire glimmer down from the tall light-house tower.

They rested there, escaped awhile From cares that wear the life away, To eat the lotus of the Nile And drink the poppies of Cathay,— To fling their loads of custom down, Like drift-weed, on the sand-slopes brown, And in the sea waves drown the restless pack Of duties, claims, and needs that barked upon their track.

One, with his beard scarce silvered, bore A ready credence in his looks, A lettered magnate, lording o'er An ever-widening realm of books. In him brain-currents, near and far, Converged as in a Leyden jar; The old, dead authors thronged him round about, And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves looked out.

He knew each living pundit well, Could weigh the gifts of him or her, And well the market value tell Of poet and philosopher. But if he lost, the scenes behind, Somewhat of reverence vague and blind, Finding the actors human at the best, No readier lips than his the good he saw confessed.

His boyhood fancies not outgrown, He loved himself the singer's art; Tenderly, gently, by his own He knew and judged an author's heart. No Rhadamanthine brow of doom Bowed the dazed pedant from his room; And bards, whose name is legion, if denied, Bore off alike intact their verses and their pride.

Pleasant it was to roam about The lettered world as he had, done, And see the lords of song without Their singing robes and garlands on. With Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere, Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer, And with the ears of Rogers, at fourscore, Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit once more.

And one there was, a dreamer born, Who, with a mission to fulfil, Had left the Muses' haunts to turn The crank of an opinion-mill, Making his rustic reed of song A weapon in the war with wrong, Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring and grow.

Too quiet seemed the man to ride The winged Hippogriff Reform; Was his a voice from side to side To pierce the tumult of the storm? A silent, shy, peace-loving man, He seemed no fiery partisan To hold his way against the public frown, The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's hounding down.

For while he wrought with strenuous will The work his hands had found to do, He heard the fitful music still Of winds that out of dream-land blew. The din about him could not drown What the strange voices whispered down; Along his task-field weird processions swept, The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped:

The common air was thick with dreams,— He told them to the toiling crowd; Such music as the woods and streams Sang in his ear he sang aloud; In still, shut bays, on windy capes, He heard the call of beckoning shapes, And, as the gray old shadows prompted him, To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends grim.

He rested now his weary hands, And lightly moralized and laughed, As, tracing on the shifting sands A burlesque of his paper-craft, He saw the careless waves o'errun His words, as time before had done, Each day's tide-water washing clean away, Like letters from the sand, the work of yesterday.

And one, whose Arab face was tanned By tropic sun and boreal frost, So travelled there was scarce a land Or people left him to exhaust, In idling mood had from him hurled The poor squeezed orange of the world, And in the tent-shade, as beneath a palm, Smoked, cross-legged like a Turk, in Oriental calm.

The very waves that washed the sand Below him, he had seen before Whitening the Scandinavian strand And sultry Mauritanian shore. From ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas Palm-fringed, they bore him messages; He heard the plaintive Nubian songs again, And mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths of Spain.

His memory round the ransacked earth On Puck's long girdle slid at ease; And, instant, to the valley's girth Of mountains, spice isles of the seas, Faith flowered in minster stones, Art's guess At truth and beauty, found access; Yet loved the while, that free cosmopolite, Old friends, old ways, and kept his boyhood's dreams in sight.

Untouched as yet by wealth and pride, That virgin innocence of beach No shingly monster, hundred-eyed, Stared its gray sand-birds out of reach; Unhoused, save where, at intervals, The white tents showed their canvas walls, Where brief sojourners, in the cool, soft air, Forgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long care.

Sometimes along the wheel-deep sand A one-horse wagon slowly crawled, Deep laden with a youthful band, Whose look some homestead old recalled; Brother perchance, and sisters twain, And one whose blue eyes told, more plain Than the free language of her rosy lip, Of the still dearer claim of love's relationship.

With cheeks of russet-orchard tint, The light laugh of their native rills, The perfume of their garden's mint, The breezy freedom of the hills, They bore, in unrestrained delight, The motto of the Garter's knight, Careless as if from every gazing thing Hid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring.

The clanging sea-fowl came and went, The hunter's gun in the marshes rang; At nightfall from a neighboring tent A flute-voiced woman sweetly sang. Loose-haired, barefooted, hand-in-hand, Young girls went tripping down the sand; And youths and maidens, sitting in the moon, Dreamed o'er the old fond dream from which we wake too soon.