TO RONGE. STRIKE home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then Put nerve into thy task. Let other men Plant, as they may, that better tree, whose fruit Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, When the roused Tenton dashes from his limb His hands, for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind! CHALKLEY HALL.* How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, The close dark city lies!— Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din Oh! once again revive, while on my ear And low hoarse hum of Traffic dies away, Like sere grass wet with rain! — Once more let God's green earth and sunset air Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, Hath not his trust forsaken. * Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of THOMAS CHALKLEY, an eminent minister of the "Friends" denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around the ancient village of Frankford, frequently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city. And well do time and place befit my mood: Of this embracing wood, a good man made. Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, The virgin soil Turned from the share he guided, and in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil. Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, He came to meet his children, and to bless And praise for his return. And here his neighbors gathered in to greet Safe from the wave and the destroying gales, To hear the good man tell of simple truth, Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle, How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, A tendering love Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, And words of fitness to his lips were given, And strength as from above: How the sad captive listened to the Word, Until his chain Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life-long pain: How the armed warrior sate him down to hear Of Peace and Truth, And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore, With deep and quiet joy. And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and shade, And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, To the grey walls of fallen Paraclete, To Juliet's urn, Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange grove, Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love Like brother pilgrims turn. But here a deeper and serener charm To all is given; And blessed memories of the faithful dead O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed The holy hues of Heaven! TO JOHN PIERPONT. NoT as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlelem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the airs of Palestine, Not to the poet, but the man I bring In friendship's fearless trust my offering: The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought! |