While yet I look'd, what a change there came! Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan: Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame, Yet, just as busily, swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust; The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept, And still there came that silver tone From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,(Let me never forget till my dying day The tone or the burden of her lay,)— Passing away! passing away! FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. Two hundred years! two hundred years! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide! The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon; His dance, his yell, his council-fire, That still, strong tide hath borne away. And that pale pilgrim band is gone, That on this shore with trembling trod, Ready to faint, yet bearing on The ark of freedom and of God. And war-that since o'er ocean came, Has raised, and shown, and swept along. "Tis like a dream when one awakes, This vision of the scenes of old; 'Tis like the moon when morning breaks, "T is like a tale round watchfires told. Then what are we? then what are we? Yes, when two hundred years have roll'd O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told. God of our fathers, in whose sight The thousand years that sweep away Man and the traces of his might Are but the break and close of dayGrant us that love of truth sublime, That love of goodness and of thee, That makes thy children in all time To share thine own eternity. Before the thought comes that-he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;-he is not there! He lives!-In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, "T will be our heaven to find that-he is there! FOR A CELEBRATION OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MECHANICS' CHARITABLE ASSOCIATION. LOUD o'er thy savage child, O God, the night-wind roar'd, As, houseless, in the wild He bow'd him and adored. Thou saw'st him there, Thine inspiration came! And, grateful for thine aid, He built beneath the shade: That darken'd round, Till in a sylvan fane Went up the voice of prayer," On Salem's hill, Along those rocky shores, Along those olive plains, Of snowy white Forth from the quarry stone The marble goddess sprung; And, loosely round her thrown, Her marble vesture hung; And forth from cold The Star of Bethlehem burn'd! No idol fanes To honour thee, dread Power! Our strength and skill combine; And temple, tomb, and tower Attest these gifts divine. A swelling dome For pride they gild, By these our fathers' host Great Source of every art! Our homes, our pictured halls, Our throng'd and busy mart, That lifts its granite walls, And shoots to heaven Its glittering spires, To catch the fires Of morn and even; These, and the breathing forms In countless ways HER CHOSEN SPOT. WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone Among these shades. A voice divine Whisper'd, "This spot shall be thine own; Here shall thy wasting form recline, Beneath the shadow of this pine." Thy will be done!" the sufferer said. This spot was hallow'd from that hour; And, in her eyes, the evening's shade And morning's dew this green spot made More lovely than her bridal bower. By the pale moon-herself more pale And spirit-like-these walks she trod; She sleepeth!" Yea, she sleepeth here, The babe that lay on her cold breastA rosebud dropp'd on drifted snowIts young hand in its father's press'd, Shall learn that she, who first caress'd Its infant cheek, now sleeps below. And often shall he come alone, When not a sound but evening's sigh Shall say, "This was my mother's choice THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE Pilgrim Fathers,-where are they?— The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore: Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day When the Mayflower moor'd below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists, that wrapp'd the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ;As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn. The Pilgrim exile,-sainted name! Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, Still lies where he laid his houseless head;- The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest; When summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallow'd spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, The Pilgrim spirit has not fled; It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN. THE winds and waves were roaring; The Pilgrims met for prayer; And here, their God adoring, They stood, in open air. The music of their psalm. Their worship and their prayers, May ours come up before thee From hearts as true as theirs! What have we, Lord, to bind us To this, the Pilgrims' shore!Their hill of graves behind us, Their watery way before, The wintry surge, that dashes Against the rocks they trod, Their memory, and their ashes, Be thou their guard, O God! We would not, Holy Father, Forsake this hallow'd spot, Till on that shore we gather Where graves and griefs are not; The shore where true devotion Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, And see no other ocean Than that of love divine. THE EXILE AT REST. His falchion flash'd along the Nile; His hosts he led through Alpine snows; Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Here sleeps he now alone; the star Gazed as it faded and went down. That wraps his mortal form in death. High is his couch; the ocean flood Far, far below by storms is curl'd, As round him heaved, while high he stood, It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, Shall foam and freeze no more. JERUSALEM, Jerusalem, How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thine aged walls have seen!Could I have gazed upon the dome Above thy towers that swells, And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells : Could I have stood on Olivet, Where once the Saviour trod, And, from its height, look'd down upon The city of our God; For is it not, Almighty God, Thy holy city still, Though there thy prophets walk no more,― That crowns Moriah's hill? Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, The streets of Salem now, But still the seed of ABRAHAM With joy upon it look, And Israel's Gon is worshipp'd yet Yes; every morning, as the day The holy name of ALLAH comes At every eve the mellow call Floats on the quiet air, "Lo, GoD is GOD! Before him come, for prayer!" Before him come, To this, when Egypt's ABRAHAM* I would have mused, while night hung out Beneath those ancient olive trees That grow in Kedron's vale, Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks The garden of Gethsemane Those aged olive trees Are shading yet, and in their shade He sought the Father there. I would have gone to Calvary, As near him as they could, I would have stood, till night o'er earth And thought upon my Saviour's cross, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Thy cross thou bearest now! And blood is on thy brow; And now thy cross is on thee laid- It was not mine, nor will it be, To see the bloody rod That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, Thou city of our God! But round thy hill the spirits throng Of all thy murder'd seers, And voices that went up from it Are ringing in my ears,― Went up that day, when darkness fell From all thy firmament, And shrouded thee at noon; and when HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD! While yet I look'd, what a change there came! Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan: Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame, Yet, just as busily, swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,- 66 FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. Two hundred years! two hundred years! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide! The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon; His dance, his yell, his council-fire, That still, strong tide hath borne away. And that pale pilgrim band is gone, That on this shore with trembling trod, Ready to faint, yet bearing on The ark of freedom and of God. And war-that since o'er ocean came, To blast that ark-its storm is still. Has raised, and shown, and swept along. "Tis like a dream when one awakes, This vision of the scenes of old; "Tis like the moon when morning breaks, "T is like a tale round watchfires told. Then what are we? then what are we? Yes, when two hundred years have roll'd O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told. God of our fathers, in whose sight The thousand years that sweep away Man and the traces of his might Are but the break and close of dayGrant us that love of truth sublime, That love of goodness and of thee, That makes thy children in all time To share thine own eternity. MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead! Is ever bounding round my study chair; And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; And then bethink me that-he is not there! A satchell'd lad I meet, Before the thought comes that-he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there! I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there! He lives!-In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, "T will be our heaven to find that he is there! |