PARTING HYMN "DUNDEE" PARTING HYMN "DUNDEE" FATHER of Mercies, Heavenly Friend, We seek thy gracious throne; To Thee our faltering prayers ascend, Our fainting hearts are known. From blasts that chill, from suns that smite, From every plague that harms; In camp and march, in siege and fight, Protect our men-at-arms. Though from our darkened lives they take What makes our life most dear, We yield them for their country's sake With no relenting tear. Our blood their flowing veins will shed, Their wounds our breasts will share; Oh, save us from the woes we dread, Or grant us strength to bear! Let each unhallowed cause that brings The stern destroyer cease, Thy flaming angel fold his wings, And seraphs whisper Peace! Thine are the sceptre and the sword, Stretch forth thy mighty hand,— Reign Thou our kingless nation's Lord, Rule Thou our throneless land! THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY WHAT flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land Oh tell us what its name may be,— Is this the Flower of Liberty? It is the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! In savage Nature's far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till Lo! earth's tyrants shook to see The full-blown Flower of Liberty Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! Behold its streaming rays unite, One mingling flood of braided light,— The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o'er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! The blades of heroes fence it round, Where'er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew,— And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry FLOWER OF LIBERTY! THE SWEET LITTLE MAN DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME RANGERS Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles, Each at his post to do all that he can, Down among rebels and contraband chattels, What are you doing, my sweet little man? All the brave boys under canvas are sleeping, All of them pressing to march with the van, Far from the home where their sweethearts are weeping; What are you waiting for, sweet little man? You with the terrible warlike mustaches, Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan, You with the waist made for sword-belts and sashes, Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little man? Bring him the buttonless garment of woman! Cover his face lest it freckle and tan; Muster the Apron-String Guards on the Common, That is the corps for the sweet little man! Give him for escort a file of young misses, Each of them armed with a deadly rattan; They shall defend him from laughter and hisses, Aimed by low boys at the sweet little man. All the fair maidens about him shall cluster, Pluck the white feathers from bonnet and fan, Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster,— That is the crest for the sweet little man! Oh, but the Apron-String Guards are the fellows Drilling each day since our troubles began,— "Handle your walking-sticks!" "Shoulder umbrellas!" That is the style for the sweet little man! Have we a nation to save? In the first place Saving ourselves is the sensible plan,— Surely the spot where there's shooting's the worst place Where I can stand, says the sweet little man. Catch me confiding my person with strangers! Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran! In the brigade of the Stay-at-Home Rangers Marches my corps, says the sweet little man. Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers, Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan; Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Quakers, Brave not the wrath of the sweet little man! Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens! Sauve qui peut ! Bridget, and right about! Ann;— Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens, See him advancing, the sweet little man! When the red flails of the battle-field's threshers Beat out the continent's wheat from its bran, While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers, What will become of our sweet little man? When the brown soldiers come back from the borders, How will he look while his features they scan? How will he feel when he gets marching orders, Signed by his lady love? sweet little man! Fear not for him, though the rebels expect him,— Life is too precious to shorten its span; Woman her broomstick shall raise to protect him, Will she not fight for the sweet little man? Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-Home Ranger! Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan! First in the field that is farthest from danger, Take your white-feather plume, sweet little man! UNION AND LIBERTY FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battle-fields' thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,— UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE! Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star Up with our banner bright, etc. Empire unsceptred! what foe shall assail thee, Bearing the standard of Liberty's van? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man! Up with our banner bright, etc. Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, Then with the arms of thy millions united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! Up with our banner bright, etc. Lord of the Universe! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? Keep us, oh keep us the MANY IN ONE! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,— UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE! SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL AMERICA TO RUSSIA AUGUST 5, 1866 Read by Hon. G. V. Fox at a dinner given to the Mission from the United States, St. Petersburg. THOUGH watery deserts hold apart The worlds of East and West, Still beats the selfsame human heart In each proud Nation's breast. Our floating turret tempts the main And dares the howling blast To clasp more close the golden chain That long has bound them fast. In vain the gales of ocean sweep, In vain the billows roar That chafe the wild and stormy steep Of storied Elsinore. She comes! She comes! her banners dip In Neva's flashing tide, With greetings on her cannon's lip, The storm-god's iron bride! Peace garlands with the olive-bough Her thunder-bearing tower, And plants before her cleaving prow The sea-foam's milk-white flower. No prairies heaped their garnered store To fill her sunless hold, Not rich Nevada's gleaming ore Its hidden caves infold, But lightly as the sea-bird swings She floats the depths above, A breath of flame to lend her wings, Her freight a people's love! When darkness hid the starry skies In war's long winter night, One ray still cheered our straining eyes, The far-off Northern light. And now the friendly rays return From lights that glow afar, Those clustered lamps of Heaven that burn Around the Western Star. A nation's love in tears and smiles We bear across the sea, O Neva of the banded isles, We moor our hearts in thee! WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS MUSIC HALL, DECEMBER 6, 1871 Sung to the Russian national air by the children of the public schools. SHADOWED so long by the storm-cloud of danger, Thou whom the prayers of an empire defend, Welcome, thrice welcome! but not as a stranger, Come to the nation that calls thee its friend! Bleak are our shores with the blasts of December, Fettered and chill is the rivulet's flow; Throbbing and warm are the hearts that remember Who was our friend when the world was our foe. Look on the lips that are smiling to greet thee, See the fresh flowers that a people has strewn Count them thy sisters and brothers that meet thee; Guest of the Nation, her heart is thine own! Fires of the North, in eternal communion, Blend your broad flashes with evening's bright star! God bless the Empire that loves the Great Union; Strength to her people! Long life to the Czar! AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS DECEMBER 9, 1871 ONE word to the guest we have gathered to greet! The echoes are longing that word to repeat,— It springs to the lips that are waiting to part, For its syllables spell themselves first in the heart. Its accents may vary, its sound may be strange, But it bears a kind message that nothing can change; The dwellers by Neva its meaning can tell, For the smile, its interpreter, shows it full well. That word! How it gladdened the Pilgrim yore, As he stood in the snow on the desolate shore! When the shout of the sagamore startled his ear In the phrase of the Saxon, 't was music to hear! Ah, little could Samoset offer our sire,— The cabin, the corn-cake, the seat by the fire; He had nothing to give,—the poor lord of the land,— But he gave him a WELCOME,—his heart in his hand! The tribe of the sachem has melted away, But the word that he spoke is remembered to-day, And the page that is red with the record of shame The tear-drops have whitened round Samoset's name. The word that he spoke to the Pilgrim of old May sound like a tale that has often been told; But the welcome we speak is as fresh as the dew,— As the kiss of a lover, that always is new! Ay, Guest of the Nation! each roof is thine own Through all the broad continent's star-bannered zone; From the shore where the curtain of morn is uprolled, To the billows that flow through the gateway of gold. The snow-crested mountains are calling aloud; Nevada to Ural speaks out of the cloud, And Shasta shouts forth, from his throne in the sky, To the storm-splintered summits, the peaks of Altai! You must leave him, they say, till the summer is green! Both shores are his home, though the waves roll between; And then we'll return him, with thanks for the same, As fresh and as smiling and tall as he came. But ours is the region of arctic delight; We can show him auroras and pole-stars by night; There's a Muscovy sting in the ice-tempered air, And our firesides are warm and our maidens are fair. The flowers are full-blown in the garlanded hall,— They will bloom round his footsteps wherever they fall; For the splendors of youth and the sunshine they bring Make the roses believe 't is the summons of Spring. One word of our language he needs must know well, But another remains that is harder to spell; We shall speak it so ill, if he wishes to learn How we utter Farewell, he will have to return! AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY AUGUST 21, 1868 BROTHERS, whom we may not reach Through the veil of alien speech, Welcome! welcome! eyes can tell What the lips in vain would spell,— Words that hearts can understand, Brothers from the Flowery Land! We, the evening's latest born, Hail the children of the morn! We, the new creation's birth, Greet the lords of ancient earth, From their storied walls and towers Wandering to these tents of ours! Land of wonders, fair Cathay, Who long hast shunned the staring day, Hid in mists of poet's dreams By thy blue and yellow streams,— Let us thy shadowed form behold,— Teach us as thou didst of old. Knowledge dwells with length of days; Wisdom walks in ancient ways; Thine the compass that could guide A nation o'er the stormy tide, Scourged by passions, doubts, and fears, Safe through thrice a thousand years! Looking from thy turrets gray Thou hast seen the world's decay,— Egypt drowning in her sands,— Athens rent by robbers' hands,— Rome, the wild barbarian's prey, Like a storm-cloud swept away: Looking from thy turrets gray Still we see thee. Where are they? And to I a new-born nation waits, Sitting at the golden gates That glitter by the sunset sea,— Waits with outspread arms for thee! Open wide, ye gates of gold, To the Dragon's banner-fold! Builders of the mighty wall, Bid your mountain barriers fall! So may the girdle of the sun. Bind the East and West in one, Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan,— Till Erie blends its waters blue With the waves of Tung-Ting-Hu,— Till deep Missouri lends its flow To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho! AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY AUGUST 2, 1872 WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of the Sun! The voice of the many sounds feebly through one; Ah! would 't were a voice of more musical tone, But the dog-star is here, and the song-birds have flown. And what shall I sing that can cheat you of smiles, Ye heralds of peace from the Orient isles? If only the Jubilee—Why did you wait? You are welcome, but oh! you're a little too late! We have greeted our brothers of Ireland and France, Round the fiddle of Strauss we have joined in the dance, We have lagered Herr Saro, that fine-looking man, And glorified Godfrey, whose name it is Dan. What a pity! we've missed it and you've missed it too, We had a day ready and waiting for you; We'd have shown you—provided, of course, you had come— You 'd have heard—no, you would n't, because it was dumb. And then the great organ! The chorus's shout Like the mixture teetotalers call "Cold without"— A mingling of elements, strong, but not sweet; And the drum, just referred to, that "couldn't be beat." The shrines of our pilgrims are not like your own, Where white Fusiyama lifts proudly its cone, (The snow-mantled mountain we see on the fan That cools our hot cheeks with a breeze from Japan.) But ours the wide temple where worship is free As the wind of the prairie, the wave of the sea; You may build your own altar wherever you will, For the roof of that temple is over you still. One dome overarches the star-bannered shore; You may enter the Pope's or the Puritan's door, Or pass with the Buddhist his gateway of bronze, For a priest is but Man, be he bishop or bonze. And the lesson we teach with the sword and the pen Is to all of God's children, "We also are men! If you wrong us we smart, if you prick us we bleed, If you love us, no quarrel with color or creed!" You'll find us a well-meaning, free-spoken crowd, Good-natured enough, but a little too loud,— To be sure, there is always a bit of a row When we choose our Tycoon, and especially now. You'll take it all calmly,—we want you to see What a peaceable fight such a contest can be, And of one thing be certain, however it ends, You will find that our voters have chosen your friends. If the horse that stands saddled is first in the race, You will greet your old friend with the weed in his face; And if the white hat and the White House agree, You'll find H. G. really as loving as he. But oh, what a pity—once more I must say— That we could not have joined in a "Japanese day"! Such greeting we give you to-night as we can; Long life to our brothers and friends of Japan! The Lord of the mountain looks down from his crest As the banner of morning unfurls in the West; The Eagle was always the friend of the Sun; You are welcome!—The song of the cage-bird is done. BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY NOVEMBER 3, 1864 O EVEN-HANDED Nature! we confess This life that men so honor, love, and bless Has filled thine olden measure. Not the less. We count the precious seasons that remain; Strike not the level of the golden grain, But heap it high with years, that earth may gain. What heaven can lose,—for heaven is rich in song Do not all poets, dying, still prolong Their broken chants amid the seraph throng, Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is seen, And England's heavenly minstrel sits between The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked Florentine? This was the first sweet singer in the cage Of our close-woven life. A new-born age Claims in his vesper song its heritage. Spare us, oh spare us long our heart's desire! Moloch, who calls our children through the fire, Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre. We count not on the dial of the sun The hours, the minutes, that his sands have run; Rather, as on those flowers that one by one. From earliest dawn their ordered bloom display Till evening's planet with her guiding ray Leads in the blind old mother of the day, We reckon by his songs, each song a flower, The long, long daylight, numbering hour by hour, Each breathing sweetness like a bridal bower. His morning glory shall we e'er forget? His noontide's full-blown lily coronet? His evening primrose has not opened yet; Nay, even if creeping Time should hide the skies In midnight from his century-laden eyes, Darkened like his who sang of Paradise, Would not some hidden song-bud open bright As the resplendent cactus of the night That floods the gloom with fragrance and with light? How can we praise the verse whose music flows With solemn cadence and majestic close, Pure as the dew that filters through the rose? How shall we thank him that in evil days He faltered never,—nor for blame, nor praise, Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier lays? But as his boyhood was of manliest hue, So to his youth his manly years were true, All dyed in royal purple through and through! He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven is strung Needs not the flattering toil of mortal tongue Let not the singer grieve to die unsung! Marbles forget their message to mankind: In his own verse the poet still we find, In his own page his memory lives enshrined, As in their amber sweets the smothered bees,— As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze, Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering trees. Poets, like youngest children, never grow Out of their mother's fondness. Nature so Holds their soft hands, and will not let them go, Till at the last they track with even feet Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses beat Twinned with her pulses, and their lips repeat. The secrets she has told them, as their own Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known, And the rapt minstrel shares her awful throne! O lover of her mountains and her woods, Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes, Where Love himself with tremulous step intrudes, Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred fire Far be the day that claims thy sounding lyre To join the music of the angel choir! Yet, since life's amplest measure must be filled, Since throbbing hearts must be forever stilled, And all must fade that evening sunsets gild, Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal eyes That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice, Its smoke may vanish from these blackened skies! Then, when his summons comes, since come it must, And, looking heavenward with unfaltering trust, He wraps his drapery round him for the dust, His last fond glance will show him o'er his head The Northern fires beyond the zenith spread In lambent glory, blue and white and red,— The Southern cross without its bleeding load, The milky way of peace all freshly strowed, And every white-throned star fixed in its lost abode! A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ How the mountains talked together, Looking down upon the weather, When they heard our friend had planned his Little trip among the Andes! How they'll bare their snowy scalps To the climber of the Alps When the cry goes through their passes, "Here comes the great Agassiz!" "Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo, "But I wait for him to say so,— That's the only thing that lacks,—he Must see me, Cotopaxi!" "Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders, "And he must view my wonders! I'm but a lonely crater Till I have him for spectator!" The mountain hearts are yearning, The lava-torches burning, The rivers bend to meet him, The forests bow to greet him, It thrills the spinal column Of fossil fishes solemn, And glaciers crawl the faster To the feet of their old master! Heaven keep him well and hearty, Both him and all his party! From the sun that broils and smites, From the centipede that bites, From the hail-storm and the thunder, From the vampire and the condor, From the gust upon the river, From the sudden earthquake shiver, From the trip of mule or donkey, From the midnight howling monkey, From the stroke of knife or dagger, From the puma and the jaguar, From the horrid boa-constrictor That has scared us in the pictur', From the Indians of the Pampas Who would dine upon their grampas, From every beast and vermin That to think of sets us squirmin', From every snake that tries on The traveller his p'ison, From every pest of Natur', Likewise the alligator, And from two things left behind him,— (Be sure they'll try to find him,) The tax-bill and assessor,— Heaven keep the great Professor May he find, with his apostles, That the land is full of fossils, That the waters swarm with fishes Shaped according to his wishes, That every pool is fertile In fancy kinds of turtle, New birds around him singing, New insects, never stinging, With a million novel data About the articulata, And facts that strip off all husks From the history of mollusks. And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum, May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at. God bless the great Professor! And Madam, too, God bless her! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creatures' poeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus,— God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,— Bless them now and evermore! 1865. AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT JULY 6, 1865 Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, Since half our battle 's won, A broadside for our Admiral! Load every crystal gun Stand ready till I give the word,— You won't have time to tire,— And when that glorious name is heard, Then hip! hurrah! and fire! Bow foremost sinks the rebel craft,— Our eyes not sadly turn And see the pirates huddling aft To drop their raft astern; Soon o'er the sea-worm's destined prey The lifted wave shall close,— So perish from the face of day All Freedom's banded foes! But ah! what splendors fire the sky What glories greet the morn! The storm-tost banner streams on high, Its heavenly hues new-born! Its red fresh dyed in heroes' blood, Its peaceful white more pure, To float unstained o'er field and flood While earth and seas endure! All shapes before the driving blast Must glide from mortal view; Black roll the billows of the past Behind the present's blue, Fast, fast, are lessening in the light The names of high renown,— Van Tromp's proud besom fades from sight, And Nelson's half hull down! Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea Or skirts the safer shores Of all that bore to victory Our stout old commodores; Hull, Bainbridge, Porter,—where are they? The waves their answer roll, "Still bright in memory's sunset ray,— God rest each gallant soul!" A brighter name must dim their light With more than noontide ray, The Sea-King of the "River Fight," The Conqueror of the Bay,— Now then the broadside! cheer on cheer To greet him safe on shore! Health, peace, and many a bloodless year To fight his battles o'er! AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT JULY 31, 1865 WHEN treason first began the strife That crimsoned sea and shore, The Nation poured her hoarded life On Freedom's threshing-floor; From field and prairie, east and west, From coast and hill and plain, The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed Thick as the bearded grain. Rich was the harvest; souls as true As ever battle tried; But fiercer still the conflict grew, The floor of death more wide; Ah, who forgets that dreadful day Whose blot of grief and shame Four bitter years scarce wash away In seas of blood and flame? Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,— Vain all her sacrifice! "Give me a man to lead my hosts, O God in heaven!" she cries. While Battle whirls his crushing flail, And plies his winnowing fan,— Thick flies the chaff on every gale,— She cannot find her man! Bravely they fought who failed to win,— Our leaders battle-scarred,— Fighting the hosts of hell and sin, But devils die always hard! Blame not the broken tools of God That helped our sorest needs; Through paths that martyr feet have trod The conqueror's steps He leads. But now the heavens grow black with doubt, The ravens fill the sky, "Friends" plot within, foes storm without, Hark,—that despairing cry, "Where is the heart, the hand, the brain To dare, to do, to plan?" The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,— She has not found her man! A little echo stirs the air,— Some tale, whate'er it be, Of rebels routed in their lair Along the Tennessee. The little echo spreads and grows, And soon the trump of Fame Has taught the Nation's friends and foes The "man on horseback"'s name. So well his warlike wooing sped, No fortress might resist His billets-doux of lisping lead, The bayonets in his fist,— With kisses from his cannons' mouth He made his passion known Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South, Unbound her virgin zone. And still where'er his banners led He conquered as he came, The trembling hosts of treason fled Before his breath of flame, And Fame's still gathering echoes grew Till high o'er Richmond's towers The starry fold of Freedom flew, And all the land was ours. Welcome from fields where valor fought To feasts where pleasure waits; A Nation gives you smiles unbought At all her opening gates! Forgive us when we press your hand,— Your war-worn features scan,— God sent you to a bleeding land; Our Nation found its man! TO H. W. LONGFELLOW BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, MAY 27, 1868 OUR Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach Borne on the spreading tide of English speech Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach. Where shall the singing bird a stranger be That finds a nest for him in every tree? How shall he travel who can never go Where his own voice the echoes do not know, Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow? Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine, Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres, That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers, That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears! Forgive the simple words that sound like praise; The mist before me dims my gilded phrase; Our speech at best is half alive and cold, And save that tenderer moments make us bold Our whitening lips would close, their truest truth untold. We who behold our autumn sun below The Scorpion's sign, against the Archer's bow, Know well what parting means of friend from friend; After the snows no freshening dews descend, And what the frost has marred, the sunshine will not mend. So we all count the months, the weeks, the days, That keep thee from us in unwonted ways, Grudging to alien hearths our widowed time; And one has shaped a breath in artless rhyme That sighs, "We track thee still through each remotest clime." What wishes, longings, blessings, prayers shall be The more than golden freight that floats with thee! And know, whatever welcome thou shalt find,— Thou who hast won the hearts of half mankind,— The proudest, fondest love thou leavest still behind! TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG FOR HIS "JUBILAEUM" AT BERLIN, NOVEMBER 5, 1868 This poem was written at the suggestion of Mr. George Bancroft, the historian. THOU who hast taught the teachers of mankind How from the least of things the mightiest grow, What marvel jealous Nature made thee blind, Lest man should learn what angels long to know? Thou in the flinty rock, the river's flow, In the thick-moted sunbeam's sifted light Hast trained thy downward-pointed tube to show Worlds within worlds unveiled to mortal sight, Even as the patient watchers of the night,— The cyclope gleaners of the fruitful skies,— Show the wide misty way where heaven is white All paved with suns that daze our wondering eyes. Far o'er the stormy deep an empire lies, Beyond the storied islands of the blest, That waits to see the lingering day-star rise; The forest-tinctured Eden of the West; Whose queen, fair Freedom, twines her iron crest With leaves from every wreath that mortals wear, But loves the sober garland ever best That science lends the sage's silvered hair;— Science, who makes life's heritage more fair, Forging for every lock its mastering key, Filling with life and hope the stagnant air, Pouring the light of Heaven o'er land and sea! From her unsceptred realm we come to thee, Bearing our slender tribute in our hands; Deem it not worthless, humble though it be, Set by the larger gifts of older lands The smallest fibres weave the strongest bands,— In narrowest tubes the sovereign nerves are spun,— A little cord along the deep sea-sands Makes the live thought of severed nations one Thy fame has journeyed westering with the sun, Prairies and lone sierras know thy name And the long day of service nobly done That crowns thy darkened evening with its flame! One with the grateful world, we own thy claim,— Nay, rather claim our right to join the throng Who come with varied tongues, but hearts the same, To hail thy festal morn with smiles and song; Ah, happy they to whom the joys belong Of peaceful triumphs that can never die From History's record,—not of gilded wrong, But golden truths that, while the world goes by With all its empty pageant, blazoned high Around the Master's name forever shine So shines thy name illumined in the sky,— Such joys, such triumphs, such remembrance thine! A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS FEBRUARY 16, 1874 THE painter's and the poet's fame Shed their twinned lustre round his name, To gild our story-teller's art, Where each in turn must play his part. What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung, The minstrel saw but left unsung! What shapes the pen of Collins drew, No painter clad in living hue! But on our artist's shadowy screen A stranger miracle is seen Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks,— The poem breathes, the picture speaks! And so his double name comes true, They christened better than they knew, And Art proclaims him twice her son,— Painter and poet, both in one! MEMORIAL VERSES FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865 CHORAL: "LUTHER'S JUDGMENT HYMN." O THOU of soul and sense and breath The ever-present Giver, Unto thy mighty Angel, Death, All flesh thou dost deliver; What most we cherish we resign, For life and death alike are thine, Who reignest Lord forever! Our hearts lie buried in the dust With him so true and tender, The patriot's stay, the people's trust, The shield of the offender; Yet every murmuring voice is still, As, bowing to thy sovereign will, Our best-loved we surrender. Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold This martyr generation, Which thou, through trials manifold, Art showing thy salvation Oh let the blood by murder spilt Wash out thy stricken children's guilt And sanctify our nation! Be thou thy orphaned Israel's friend, Forsake thy people never, In One our broken Many blend, That none again may sever! Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our song of praise, And bless thy name forever! FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES CAMBRIDGE, JULY 21, 1865 FOUR summers coined their golden light in leaves, Four wasteful autumns flung them to the gale, Four winters wore the shroud the tempest weaves, The fourth wan April weeps o'er hill and vale; And still the war-clouds scowl on sea and land, With the red gleams of battle staining through, When lo! as parted by an angel's hand, They open, and the heavens again are blue! Which is the dream, the present or the past? The night of anguish or the joyous morn? The long, long years with horrors overcast, Or the sweet promise of the day new-born? Tell us, O father, as thine arms infold Thy belted first-born in their fast embrace, Murmuring the prayer the patriarch breathed of old,— "Now let me die, for I have seen thy face!" Tell us, O mother,—nay, thou canst not speak, But thy fond eyes shall answer, brimmed with joy,— Press thy mute lips against the sunbrowned cheek, Is this a phantom,—thy returning boy? Tell us, O maiden,—ah, what canst thou tell That Nature's record is not first to teach,— The open volume all can read so well, With its twin rose-hued pages full of speech? And ye who mourn your dead,—how sternly true The crushing hour that wrenched their lives away, Shadowed with sorrow's midnight veil for you, For them the dawning of immortal day! Dream-like these years of conflict, not a dream! Death, ruin, ashes tell the awful tale, Read by the flaming war-track's lurid gleam No dream, but truth that turns the nations pale. For on the pillar raised by martyr hands Burns the rekindled beacon of the right, Sowing its seeds of fire o'er all the lands,— Thrones look a century older in its light! Rome had her triumphs; round the conqueror's car The ensigns waved, the brazen clarions blew, And o'er the reeking spoils of bandit war With outspread wings the cruel eagles flew; Arms, treasures, captives, kings in clanking chains Urged on by trampling cohorts bronzed and scarred, And wild-eyed wonders snared on Lybian plains, Lion and ostrich and camelopard. Vain all that praetors clutched, that consuls brought When Rome's returning legions crowned their lord; Less than the least brave deed these hands have wrought, We clasp, unclinching from the bloody sword. Theirs was the mighty work that seers foretold; They know not half their glorious toil has won, For this is Heaven's same battle,-joined of old When Athens fought for us at Marathon! Behold a vision none hath understood! The breaking of the Apocalyptic seal; Twice rings the summons.—Hail and fire and blood! Then the third angel blows his trumpet-peal. Loud wail the dwellers on the myrtled coasts, The green savannas swell the maddened cry, And with a yell from all the demon hosts Falls the great star called Wormwood from the sky! Bitter it mingles with the poisoned flow Of the warm rivers winding to the shore, Thousands must drink the waves of death and woe, But the star Wormwood stains the heavens no more! Peace smiles at last; the Nation calls her sons To sheathe the sword; her battle-flag she furls, Speaks in glad thunders from unspotted guns, No terror shrouded in the smoke-wreath's curls. O ye that fought for Freedom, living, dead, One sacred host of God's anointed Queen, For every holy, drop your veins have shed We breathe a welcome to our bowers of green! Welcome, ye living! from the foeman's gripe Your country's banner it was yours to wrest,— Ah, many a forehead shows the banner-stripe, And stars, once crimson, hallow many a breast. And ye, pale heroes, who from glory's bed Mark when your old battalions form in line, Move in their marching ranks with noiseless tread, And shape unheard the evening countersign, Come with your comrades, the returning brave; Shoulder to shoulder they await you here; These lent the life their martyr-brothers gave,— Living and dead alike forever dear!