Songs for All Seasons, and Other Poems

OURS IS THE CHOICE. If no one planted precious seed How barren all the land would be, North and south and east and west, Never plenty, never rest; For a harvest rich and free, Vain to plead. Be ready, all along the way, To seek the motive power of life; Free to sow, to garner in, Love its sure reward will win. Undismayed by doubt or strife, Work away. If each man did the best he could In winter as in summer time; By pleasure’s side, on sorrow’s brink, His life chain forging link by link; Easy it would be to climb, Doing good. OURS IS THE CHOICE. Most gracious choice! What is a soul without a voice? A noble thought develops noble deeds, Words give thought freedom, words are wings, Deft carriers of mysterious things Too glorious to behold; They bear swift witness to our needs And make the true heart bold, To mirror forth in language quaint, The image fancy cannot paint. THE SUM OF LIFE. Day by day the weeks go by, Month by month the swift years fly, Hour by hour we work, we live, Love and labor, gain and give. Taking blessings as they come, In the total find life’s sum; Bind as in a volume vast, Read the future by the past. Only reaching heights sublime, Willing step by step to climb; Wealth to which a soul succeeds Is to what the present leads. BUILD. How much can we hope to win, while we merely sit and plan? It is better far to build, just building the best we can. And pleasant it is to build though the building itself is small, Though many a builder fail and many a building fall. It is ever the willing hands are sure to accomplish most; It is ever the truthful lips are least inclined to boast; It is ever the loving heart, is the safest heart to trust; Let us build because we may, and not because we must. THE PERFECT SONG. Shall we not gladly sing the song A fainting heart to cheer? Although the path is dark and long Some saving help is near. There is no hill so hard to climb We may not reach the top; It were a needless waste of time To stop. Shall we not gladly sing the song To speed men on their way, And swell the throng, the happy throng, Swift pressing on to-day? Which would we choose, to bravely sing The while we do our best, Or to an idle fancy cling And rest? In the refrain of one sweet song Each silent voice we miss, A song to make the feeble strong, A song to breathe of bliss. The song which white robed seraphs hold All other songs above; The perfect song, the new, the old, Of Love. SUNSHINE. There is plenty of sunshine in the world To brighten the darkest days; Are we sailing on with our colors furled, Or spread to the cheering rays? Are we sailing on with downcast eyes, Or eyes on the gleaming goal? Safe is the trip of the ship of the skies Though the waves of the clouds rough roll. “IT IS GOD’S WAY.” Rest, kindly heart, content to say “It is God’s way, His will be done.” Thrice blessed thought, With bliss enwrought, For Freedom’s son. Rest, kingly soul, inspired to say “It is God’s way, His will be done.” While nations weep And vigil keep, Thy course is run. Rest, martyr, lo! we hear thee say:— “It is God’s way, His will be done.” “Nearer to Thee,” Oh, tender plea, The crown is won. TIME. When there is urgent need for haste Can we move slow? Let precious moments run to waste A chance forego? Achievement’s dizzy heights alone Stand forth sublime; There is no penance to atone For loss of time. MAY. From southern climes, O swiftly wing thy way And pour thy symphonies in cadence sweet Upon the air. ’Tis done, and at thy feet Forget-me-nots soft nestle in the spray Fresh scattered by the dew-drops in their play: Ay, even over echo’s proud retreat, Monadnoc, lies thy handiwork complete; All hail thee, gentle queen,—benignant May! May, brilliant May, with arbutus adorned; Fairer than life itself when hope prevails; Thy minstrels pipe in peace from yon blue pond, Where water-lilies spread their airy sails, And feathered songsters wake the wood beyond With notes more ringing sweet than nightingale’s. For what is England’s silver-throated bird The heart of free America to thrill; When robin’s merry strain, the lark’s wild trill, Fall on the fainting faith like some fond word From lips beloved, that other days have heard,— Which spurred the lagging feet to climb the hill, That ere the “sweet note” fell forgot their will And marveled—what the feeble steps deterred. Then, as on zephyr wing the summons came, It cheered the soul triumphant on its way; It fanned the “spark celestial” to a flame Which shimmered through the night’s bewildered gray To glow about the One All-Blessed Name, And write in lines of gold: “Hail! Bonny May! ” MAN AND THE MIST. He cannot sweep away the mist However he may toil, Content to weary years persist It would his efforts foil. There is a place of vision clear Where earth and sky are blending, Impelling him to persevere, From height to height ascending. How good it is when man can rise Above the mist-hung valley, He must, who on his worth relies, To his own rescue rally. He murmurs not at rocks ahead But vaulting lightly o’er them, Will triumph over foemen dread Or better yet ignore them. Not seeking to the mist dispel Thus precious moments wasting, He marvels not that others fell While upward, onward, hasting. He hears the sound on ev’ry hand Of people vainly shouting, But knowing where he soon may stand Gives not a thought to doubting. He pushes on with heart athrill; Though weaker souls may taunt him, Succeed he must, succeed he will, No obstacle can daunt him. There is a place for all who climb He cannot fail to find it, The mist must veil a truth sublime For there’s the sun behind it. THE FLOWERS. Weary and ill, Fair messengers and sweet They healthful thoughts and gracious hopes entreat, Fragrant out breathings from some balmy hill, Fresh from their sky-domed, leafy bowers, Thrice blessed flowers! Oppressive walls Instinctively expand, And sunny fields unfold on either hand, As singing rills repeat the blithe bird calls. We walk in breezy woodland bowers, Seeing the flowers. The burdened brain Submissive to their spell Is quick to heed the gentle tale they tell: No baby blossom ever blooms in vain. Borne from their dreamy, dewy bowers; Cherish the flowers. RECOMPENSE. After the shadows, sunshine; Quiet after the pain; Light for the mountain passes And for the desert rain. After the shadows, sunshine, After the failure, success; Never a pleasure is taken But something is given to bless. THE WAY. The way may be rough, And our footsteps may falter, Though foeman rebuff, The right cannot alter; As upward we climb Each trouble outbraving, More sweet and sublime Is the boon we are craving. The way may be long, And the day may be dreary; The world is not wrong Because we are weary. A cloud may annoy, But soon shall we read it By light of the joy And the peace that succeed it. A SONG. A song makes merry music ’mid the hills, Like laughing rills. On heaven’s bright sea its echo lingers long, Love is a song. A quenchless melody given to inspire The fainting heart with bold, ambitious fire; Springing from out the life, As pain is born of strife. A sweet conception of the joy to be, Delightful, free. Gladly our lips take up the winsome strain And make the meaning of its birthright plain. THE MISSING SHIP. Any news yet of the missing ship? Any news yet? we say; A household word on every lip, The name of that ship to-day: The name of the ship who left her dock In the blush of the early morn, Has she struck, unknown, on some cruel rock With never a voice to warn? Any news yet of the missing ship? Any news yet? we cry; We speak her name with a trembling lip, To her aid we fain would fly. Adrift at mercy of wind and wave; Storm spent on a desolate shore:— May there be one guardian hand to save, ’Mid the billows rush and roar. Any news yet of the missing ship? Any news yet? we sigh; We speak her name with a timid lip, And pray for a kind reply. For life and death in a moment blend, Who ever the captain may be; We never can tell how a trip will end, When a ship puts out to sea. TRANQUILITY. We well may keep a tranquil mind Whatever changes meeting, The world is happier we find For ev’ry pleasant greeting. How easy then to work away At each new problem set us, For even on the darkest day Some gleam of hope has met us. There is no hill so hard to climb, We may not reach the summit; There is no task, but patience, time, Will grandly overcome it. We cannot look for light in vain, Behold it all around us; Perplexing paths shall be made plain, When victory has crowned us. NO DUTY IS TOO DIFFICULT TO DO. Attentive to the work the will requires The hand achieves the task the heart desires; No duty is too difficult to do, The end in view. The end in view, if hope, or love, it be; Content, when it can set a brother free; Or bid him move rejoicing on his way The while ’tis day. Attentive to the work the will requires, The hand perfects the task the heart desires, No duty is too difficult to do, The end in view. “OLD YEAR, ADIEU.” A happy measure smites the ear. It pealeth full, it pealeth clear; And at the “witching hour” of night, Awakes a rapture of delight. Across the land, across the sea, The merry strain is borne along; While even seraphs bend the knee Before the majesty of song. Old Year—alas, we cannot stay Thy eager footsteps for a day; Thy work is done, and thou shalt go, A rival is at hand we know. Across the land, across the sea, The merry strain is borne along; Ah! surely it is bliss to flee Upon the pinions of a song. Hark!—clear and strong and full and free, I hear the bells saluting thee; They seem to say “Old Year, adieu”— And “halleluiah” to the New. Across the land, across the sea, The merry peal is borne along, And all the world must happy be To hear the oft-repeated song. WASHINGTON. ’Twas Christmas eve, the enemy his vigilance for once relaxed; Well might such gusts of angry sleet the keenest zeal have overtaxed. The ice thronged Delaware ran bleak, but friendly, to the distant bay, While to and fro upon his beat the sentry took his patient way. A gallant force full often tried was swiftly plying mattock, spade, While those who first should stem the tide, moved calmly forth as on parade. They met in silence, halted, marched, the merest motion a command, A raging river rolled before; the “Lion” hungered near at hand. The watchfires gleaming through the mist seemed saying:—Courage! men, good cheer. None may suppose while bright we burn, that not a soldier lingers near. The hero faced a bank of gloom, it spoke security, success. He saw the country free and felt a glow of holy happiness. Within the measure of a breath he saw the revolution o’er, He saw Mount Vernon smile in peace above the blue Potomac’s shore. But happy times were yet to come, a grim invader walked the land, Oh that he might by one dread blow bid yonder Hessian horde disband. The frost lay white upon his brow, the blizzard raved, he heeded not, No hand but God’s should stand between his army and the goal it sought. And so he crossed the Delaware, a lesser man had quailed to view, He crossed it, for full well he knew how brave his men although how few. The boat was faithful to its trust, it bore him slowly, surely, o’er; And scorned to heed the groaning mass that pressed upon it more and more. So victor crowned, at early morn, through Trenton’s smoke hung streets he passed, Like one, who after weary days, has caught a glimpse of home at last. He passed in triumph, passed to find, though other battles loomed before, That monarchy, could not again, in this free land her loss restore. COMRADES. Comrades, yea comrades in war and comrades in peace, Comrades when bugles were sounding a blessed release; Comrades when bullets were whistling and death rode in sight, Comrades ’mid battle and conquest and comrades to-night. Comrades when many a river ran red with blood, Comrades when war swept us on with the force of a flood; Comrades when charging the fortress each fain would be first; Comrades where thickest and fiercest the hissing shells burst. Comrades, even as in the great conflicts of yore, Comrades with danger behind us and danger before; Comrades when tempests of sorrow were shrouding the sky, Comrades to suffer and conquer, or suffer and die. CHARACTER. Armed with reason, braced by knowledge, Surely such a one is king; Ready in his honest manhood For whatever fate may bring. Public spirited, courageous, Gauging chances at their best; Let his character commend him, Time will gladly do the rest. WHAT IS THERE TO BE THANKFUL FOR? “What is there to be thankful for?” I think I hear you say: Hope is a happy counsellor When clouds hang dull and gray; The sky is dark, the way is long, The hours move sad and slow; A fitting time for one sweet song To set the heart aglow. A fitting time for one sweet song To echo far and wide, The sky is dark, the way is long, My strength is sorely tried. Though dark the sky and long the way, I’ll keep love’s armor bright. Still singing, through the night, the day, I know God’s will is right. How oft the eager pulse must thrill To robin’s liquid note; A merry tune, the May-buds trill ’Neath winter’s shielding coat. There sounds a gracious hymn of praise From ev’ry living thing; Because the sun refuse its rays Can I refuse to sing? Can I refuse to sing when some Might find the timid strain More powerful than trump or drum, And swell the glad refrain? Lo, Christ has made me free to rise From man’s forlorn estate, To look beyond the stormy skies And see the pearly gate. What is there to be thankful for? A will that would obey; A soul that stands as conqueror, And this, that I may pray. Lo, Christ has made me free to rise From man’s forlorn estate, I look beyond the stormy skies And see the pearly gate. LIFE’S TEMPLE. How shall we plan life’s temple? With a height divine, Wherein rare workmanship and worth combine; Or low and rambling, that the prisoned soul May trace no semblance of the wondrous whole, To which its hopes so eagerly aspire? We can but fashion what we most admire. How shall we plan life’s temple? By design complete, Which on the world’s highway we fain would meet; Then ere Night dons her star-encrusted veil To silent journey over hill and dale, The dream of youth, at least, may proudly stand— An ideal structure in an ideal land. How shall we build life’s temple? Build it stone on stone And ever build, no part abides alone. We labor vainly if we fail to know A firm foundation though ’tis builded slow, Is built to stand, when hearts are bold to dare And bound to conquer as to do and bear. WHAT DO WE OWE OUR FRIENDS? What do we owe our friends? We owe them love, not fear, Love that the closer clings when storms are near; Love that shall speak in eye, in voice, in hand, And steadfast stand. What do we owe our friends but loyalty and trust? Forever faithful, sympathetic, just; A peerless comforter, and shield and guide, Whate’er betide. What do we owe our friends? The kinship of good deeds, A soul responsive to their deepest needs, To share life’s burdens all the weary way, And watch, and pray. What do we owe our friends? The patience which forbears; And fond communion ’mid their joys, their cares; A gracious spirit firm to do its best, Nor doubt, nor rest. What do we owe our friends? Kind thoughts and pleasant cheer Born of affection tender and sincere, And ready service, the efficient seal Of earnest zeal. What do we owe our friends? We owe them love, not fear, Love that the closer clings when storms are near, Love that shall speak in eye, in voice, in hand, And steadfast stand. MEMORIAL DAY. [Dedicated to the G. A. R. Read at Huntington Hall.] With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow, Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below; Oh, gather by the sacred dust of comrades loyal, true, Wave over them thy benison, the red, the white, the blue. May this fair Union stand complete, a monument divine To those who sacrificed their lives at freedom’s holy shrine; Upon each thirtieth of May with solemn tread we come, And pay them tender tribute to the throbbing of the drum. We marched with them, we fought with them, our bed the sullen sod, With not a star above us and without a hope, save God; ’Mid cannon’s roar, the halt, the dash, the victory, retreat, We saw them falling ’round us as the sickle fells the wheat. Oh, dark the days that followed fast on Baltimore, Bull Run, Beneath the torrid fierceness of a blazing southern sun; With Butler in his bold campaigns, with Sherman by the sea, We shoulder stood to shoulder in the battle of the free. And ever through the living past there flows a tender vein, To stir the heart and open wounds that bleed and bleed again, As tearful eyes and empty arms to death itself appealed, Alas for those who sadly knelt on Desolation’s field! Oh, there are many lonely lie beneath the rev’rent blue, But they will not be missing from the final grand review; Let wives and mothers gather near, and little children weep Above the dreary pillows where the martyred heroes sleep. The martyred heroes; yonder shaft of granite guards a spot, The sepulchre of comrades that can never be forgot; While pride endures, and nations thrive, and patriots survive Must Lowell keep the mem’ry of her own great loss alive. She scatters garlands o’er her dead and softly tolls the bells, But for her martyred heroes are the precious immortelles. Oh, Ladd and Whitney, side by side, in peaceful silence rest, Among the fairest jewels that adorn Columbia’s breast. We cannot think of them as lost, for moving on and on The soul shall rise triumphant on the resurrection morn; Upon the angel wings of prayer let thought sublime ascend Until we feel the grandeur that the dying comprehend. With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow, Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below; And mingle with the breath of flowers that sigh above the brave, The note of lamentation, like an echo from the grave. The laurel wreath, the tearful eye and Honor’s fairest crown Are drops in life’s great ocean to the price that they laid down. Hush! listen to the sacred dirge, it swells,—it sobs,—it dies: Until we see them marching, marching home beyond the skies. OUR CITY. Turn backward the close written pages, Close written with deeds breathing praise, A secret attracting the sages, The fruitful reward of our gaze. Yes, turn back the close written pages, in gratitude seeking the clue; Be thankful to find it and wonder to such a fair record review. Her history daily unfolding, Through life of the daughter, the son, From models the moments are molding The fame of our city is won. Her rapid development shows us, the Merrimack’s run to the sea Has not been more true to its mission than she to her promise will be. How patiently Labor has striven, Bespeaking the boon of success; The loom and the spindle once given Have proven as guerdons to bless. The fields boldly trodden by red men, in league with each meadow and hill, Where lingered the good Wannalancit, now answer to Industry’s will. While yet a mere village came duly Determined and far seeing men, So skillfully wrought they, so truly, The present was plain to them, then. They planned with a clear sighted vision, their eyes on futurity bent, Ambitious to build to their utmost, that none might have cause to lament. The hand-maiden Knowledge beside them Led Genius, twin-brother of Art; A blessing could not be denied them, Each steadfastly doing his part. The summons of Lincoln stood honored as soon as the summons was heard, And later when Cuba was calling how many went forth at the word. Adversity’s forces defying The County, the Country, the State On Lowell are wise in relying Till tempests of trouble abate. Rejoice in the marvellous brightness illuming the glorious past, Prosperity’s presence will grandly the scope of the future forecast. NIGHT. The mellow moonbeams glint along the waves, Beyond the inky blur yon frowning height Full oft impresses on the tranquil deep. What eagle glances pierce the veil of gloom! Each galaxy of light proclaims a town, Instinct with life, as childhood is with joy. Afar, like some dim phantom of the hour, A liner speeds majestic on her way; While beaconward a schooner lies at ease, A graceful shadow on a silvered sea. LITTLE WIDE-AWAKE. Would you see a winsome fairy with her baby eyes alight, As she wrestles with the problem: “Oh, will Santy come to-night?” Mischief beaming in the glances where the dainty dimples hide, ’Mid a wealth of wiles bewitching at the merry Christmas tide. Twice her eager ears have heard, Sounds as if the yule log stirred; Thrice the reindeer bells have rung Since the twilight hour was young. From her rosy lips and fingers honey-sweet caresses fall, Like a tender benediction on the loving hearts of all; And with each exultant jingle from the busy street below Hark the joyful proclamation:—“He is coming now, I know.” Singing blithely as a wren:— “Peace on earth, good will to men.” Wafted on the strain so sweet, Surely earth and heaven meet. How she warms and glows and sparkles, like a precious human gem, Till she kneels beside the chimney at the setting of P.M. With her gentle face uplifted and the drooping lashes wet, Whispering the fond petition which she never can forget:— For the lonely and the sad That the morrow may be glad, And that Kris herself will bless With just one benign caress. Hurry, darling, let us go to the magic realm of sleep, It is over there, you know, we may hear a love-bird peep; Hang the stocking up in state where Saint Nicholas must see, Then away to fair dreamland on the fast express with me. Happy Little Wide-Awake, Santy comes and no mistake; But she misses half the bliss Of his pleasant smile and kiss. TRY TO HELP ANOTHER.

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