And ever as they sang, Lift up your gates and sing, Hosanna to your King! And then methought my dream was chang'd, Hush'd were the glad Hosannas The little children sang. The sun grew dark with mystery, The morn was cold and chill As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill. As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Hark! how the Angels sing, Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your King. And once again the scene was chang'd, New earth there seem'd to be, I saw the Holy City Beside the tideless sea; The light of God was on its streets, The gates were open wide, And all who would might enter, And no one was denied. No need of moon or stars by night, It was the new Jerusalem THE QUESTIONER BY CARL WERNER I called the boy to my knee one day, More clouded skies than blue And I anxiously peered in his upturned face For it seemed to say: "Did you?" I touched my lips to his tiny own And I said to the boy: "Heigh, ho! Will you keep them always so?" Then back from those years came a rakish song With a ribald jest or two And I gazed at the child who knew no wrong, "Did you?" I looked in his eyes, big, brown and clear, Will you keep them true in the after-year? Then out of the past came another's eyes Sad eyes of tear-dimmed blue Did he know they were not his mother's eyes? For he answered me: "Did you?" LINES ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON CHARLES BY DANIEL WEBSTER My son, thou wast my heart's delight, I held thee on my knee, my son! And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping. Thou'rt with thy angel sister sleeping. The staff, on which my years should lean, Thou rear'st to me no filial stone, No parent's grave with tears beholdest; And stand in Heaven's account the oldest. On earth my lot was soonest cast, Thy generation after mine, I should have set before thine eyes Sweet Seraph, I would learn of thee, Dear Angel, thou art safe in Heaven; No prayers for thee need more be made; Oh! let thy prayers for those be given Who oft have blessed thy infant head. My Father! I beheld thee born THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning? - "Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain.' Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain-course." |