SONS of the nation to glory restored,
Strew with fresh laurels the patriot’s grave--
Heed the libation to Liberty poured--
Honor the blood of the fearless and brave.
When the red bolts of destruction were hurled,
Bursting in tempests of fury and flame,
Faithful to Freedom, the hope of the world,
Swift to the rescue each patriot came.
Breasting the waves of the battle’s wild sea,
Facing, unflinching, the cannon’s hot breath,
Hail to the brave! who marched fearless and free,
Down to the valley and shadow of Death.
Trace it in marble as white as the snows,
Chisel in granite the record sublime,
Sacred to Freedom--and teaching our foes
Lessons of wisdom as lasting as time.
Bright as the stars in the firmament shine,
Still may they watch o’er this land from on high,
Teaching our hearts, as their names we enshrine,
Faithful to Freedom to live and to die.
OUTWARD BOUND.
IT was midnight dark, when I launched my bark
On a wild, tempestuous sea;
The lightnings flashed, and the white waves dashed
Like steeds from the rein set free.
’Twas a fearful night, and no beacon-light
O’er the waste of waters shone;
On the wide, wide sweep of the angry deep,
Alas! I was all alone.
I had left behind the faithful and kind,
The gentle and true of heart;
O God above! from their clinging love,
It was hard, it was hard to part.
O, why did I leave such hearts to grieve,
And haste from my home away?
’Twas the chosen hour of a mighty power,
Whose summons I must obey.
I had heard the call which must come to all,
And I felt, by my quickened breath,
I must leave that shore to return no more,
For the name of that sea was Death.
Thus Outward Bound, with a dizzy sound
Like waves in my troubled brain,
I drifted away like a soul astray,
For I felt that to strive was vain.
Like the brooding wing of some grewsome thing,
The darkness around me spread;
The wild winds roared, and the tempests poured
Their fury upon my head.
Anon through the night, like serpents bright,
The quivering lightnings came,
Or an instant coiled where the white waves boiled,
To moisten their tongues of flame.
In the giddy whirl, in the greedy swirl,
I felt I was sinking fast,
When an arm, as white as the opal bright,
Was firmly around me cast.
And a well-known voice made my heart rejoice--
“Fear not! for the strife is o’er;
To your resting-place in my warm embrace,
Do I welcome you back once more.”
’Twas my mother dear spake those words of cheer,
Whom I met with a glad surprise,
For I thought she slept where the willows wept,
Till the day when the dead should rise.
I had passed away from my form of clay,
But not to a distant sphere;
Like a troubled dream did the struggle seem,
For my spirit still lingered here.
I had weathered the storm, but my mortal form
Like a wreck in my presence lay;
They said I was dead when my spirit fled,
And with weeping they turned away.
Then the dearest came, and she sobbed my name;
But how could those pale lips speak?
She bent o’er my form like a reed in the storm,
As she kissed my clay-cold cheek.
I was with her there, and with tender care
I folded her close to my breast,
Till the heart’s wild throb, and the bursting sob,
Were silenced and soothed to rest.
O human love! there is nought above,
That ever will rudely part
The sacred tie, or the union high,
Of those who are one in heart.
A bridge leads o’er from the heavenly shore,
Where the happy spirits pass,
And the angels that stand with the harp in the hand,
On the “sea, as it were, of glass,”
Play so soft and clear that the human ear,
And the spirits who love the Lord,
Can catch the sound through the space profound,
And join in the sweet accord.
O, what is death? ’Tis a fleeting breath--
A simple but blesséd change--
’Tis rending a chain, that the soul may gain
A higher and broader range.
Unbounded space is its dwelling-place,
Where no human foot hath trod,
But everywhere doth it feel the care
And the changeless love of God.
O, then, though you weep when your loved ones sleep,
When the rose on the cheek grows pale,
Yet their forms of light, just concealed from sight,
Are only behind the vail.
With their faces fair, and their shining hair
With blossoms of beauty crowned,
They will also stand, with a helping hand,
When you shall be Outward Bound.
THE WANDERER’S WELCOME HOME.
A WOMAN, with weary heart and hand,
Wasted and worn by the rude world’s strife,
Prayed for the peace of the better land,
And the mansions fair of the higher life.
She prayed at night in the churchyard lone,
Resting her brow on a cold, white stone.
All of that day in the public street,
She had played on her harp and patiently sung,
Till the cold wind palsied her weary feet,
And chilled the words on her faltering tongue.
And but one penny to meet her need
Had the cold world spared from its selfish greed.
O, the mocking words of “Home, sweet home,”
Had she sung for that paltry, pitiful fee,
She who thus lonely was doomed to roam,
While never a home on earth had she;
But often the lips must perform a part
That is foreign and false to the aching heart.
At night, by her sorrowful longings led,
She had turned from the dwellings of men away,
And sought the place of the sleeping dead,
In silence and darkness alone to pray.
While her harp, as it sighed in the wintry air,
Seemed to echo the tone of her lone heart’s prayer.
Her face was white as the drifted snows,
And her eyes were fixed in a dull despair,
As if the chilling tide of her woes
Had swelled from her heart, and had frozen there.
She lifted her hands to the wintry sky,
And prayed in her anguish, “Lord, let me die!”
Then soft and clear to her quickened sense
A vision of heavenly beauty came;
Her spirit thrilled with a joy intense,
And her heart grew warm with a heavenly flame.
Sweet voices were singing, “No longer roam,
But haste to the joys of thy ‘home, sweet home.’”
The stars looked down from the wintry skies
In solemn beauty, undimmed and clear,
But the vision that greeted her eager eyes
Was unto her spirit both warm and near.
Again those voices poured forth the lay,
“To thy ‘home, sweet home,’ O, haste away.”
She seized her harp, and her white hand swept
With a full accord o’er its trembling strings,
Waking the echoes that round her slept,
Like the swan, which in dying so sweetly sings,
As she answered them back, “No more to roam,
Lo! I come, I come to my ‘home, sweet home.’”
The watchman who went on his lonely round
Felt his stout heart thrill with a sense of dread,
When he heard that strange and unwonted sound
Come forth from the place of the silent dead.
He listened, and breathed a fervent prayer
For the rest of the dreamless sleepers there.
The watchman who went on his lonely round
Remembered that sound at break of day,
And he turned aside to the hallowed ground,
Where the dead in their quiet slumbers lay.
And there he found, by the cold, white stone,
The lifeless form whence the soul had flown.
With white lips parted, and eyes upraised,
And her hands to the harp-strings frozen cold,
The warm blood chilled in his veins as he gazed,
And he thought of the weight of her woes untold.
“Great God!” he said, “is our faith a lie,
That thus, unheeded, thy children die!”
“Hush, murmuring spirit!” the Truth replied;
“Loss ever walks hand in hand with gain;
Life hath its sunny and shady side,
Its major, as well as its minor strain.
And she who thus lonely was doomed to roam
Now rests at peace in her ‘home, sweet home.’”
“The pilgrims of earth, in their homeward way,
Full often in danger and doubt must stand;
But out of the darkness shall come the day,
And strength and healing from God’s right hand.
And the scales of life, as they rise and fall,
Full measures of justice shall mete to all.”
LABOR AND WAIT.
ALL green, and bitter, and hard, and sour,
The fruit on the Tree of Life is growing;
But the genial sunshine, with quickening power,
Will sweeten its juices like nectar flowing.
For the full, fair growth of its perfect state
There is only needed the right condition.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
Till the ripening future shall bring fruition.
Far out in the harvest fields of Time,
The grain for the reaper is standing ready,
And they who come to the work sublime
Must toil with a patience calm and steady.
Truth never was subject to Chance or Fate--
Its sickle, so sharp, cuts clean and even.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For the seed-field of Earth yields the harvest of Heaven.
In their quiet graves, on the green hill-side,
The sacred dust of your loved is sleeping;
And the homes where the light of their smile has died
Are filled with the sorrowful sounds of weeping.
But over the gloomy clouds of Fate,
The light of the better land is shining;
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For the cloud of Death has a silver lining.
There are fair, sweet faces, and gentle eyes,
That look through the shadows and mists above you;
And the fond affection that never dies,
Still speaks from the lips of the blest who love you.
They call you up from your low estate,
To the boundless bliss of the life supernal.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For Time is short, but Life is Eternal.
FRAE RHYMING ROBIN.
The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns,
at the close of a lecture on “The Immaculate Conception.”
GUID FRIENDS:
I WILL na’ weave my rhymes to-night
In winsome measure,
Or strive your fancies to delight
Wi’ songs o’ pleasure;
But gin[6] ye hae na’ heard too much
O’ solemn preachin’,
I’ll gie ye just anither touch
O’ useful teachin’.
But, aiblins,[7] when ye hear my verse,
Ye may be thinkin’
That I hae sunk frae bad to warse,
And still am sinkin’;
But though I seem to fa’ from grace,
In man’s opinion,
Auld Hornie ne’er will see my face
In his dominion.
An unco[8] change will come, ere lang,
O’er all your dreamin’,
And ye shall see that right and wrang
Are much in seemin’.
Man shall na’ langer perjure love,
Nor think it treason
Anent[9] the mighty King above,
To use his reason.
Ay, love and nature, frae the first,
Hae been perverted,
And man, frae Adam, will be cursed,
Till he’s converted:
For Nature will avenge her cause
On ilka[10] creature,
Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws,
For guide and teacher.
Auld Custom is a sleekit[11] saint,
And sae is Fashion,
And baith will watch till sinners faint,
To lay the lash on;
Men follow them wi’ ane accord,
Led by their noses,
Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord,
The God o’ Moses.”
The time will come when man will ken
God’s word far better;
He’ll live mair in the spirit then,
Less in the letter;
And that which man ance called impure,
Through partial seein’,
He’ll find for it baith cause and cure,
In his ain bein’.
Man needna’ gae to auld lang syne
For truth to guide him,
For if he seeks, he sure will fin’
Truth close beside him.
Each gowan[12] is ordained o’ grace
To be his teacher,
And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s[13] face
Is text and preacher.
Man was na’ born a child o’ hell
Frae his creation:
The love that made him will itsel’
Be his salvation.
Each child that’s born o’ perfect love
Can be man’s saviour:
Love is his warrant frae above,
For guid behavior.
His mither may be high or low,
A Miss or Madam;
The God within him will outgrow
The sin o’ Adam;
His only bed may be the earth,
His hame a shealin’;[14]
It will na’ change his real worth,
Or inward feelin’.
Though born beneath the Church’s ban,
Or man’s displeasure,
He will na’ be the less a man
In mind or measure.
God’s image, stamped upon his brow,
Is his defender,
And makes him--as ye hae it now--
“Guid legal tender.”
But ilka child that’s born o’ hate--
However lawful--
Will be the victim, sune or late,
O’ passions awful;
Will hirple[15] o’er the ways o’ life,
Wi’ friends scarce ony,
And in the dour[16] warld’s angry strife,
Find faes full mony.
The Power aboon, sae kind and guid,
Who ever sees us,
Will gie to men, whene’er they need,
A John or Jesus.
The sin o’ Adam will na’ cause
His love to vary,
Nor need he change creation’s laws[17]
To form a Mary.
Man’s sympathies must largely share
In what is human,
And he will love the truth the mair,
That’s born o’ woman.
The De’il himsel’, at last, through love
Will be converted,
And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above,
Leave hell deserted.
The One who laid Creation’s plan
Knows how to end it,
Nor need he ever call on man
To help him mend it.
Then, syne[18] this Being is your friend,
And man your brither,
Gae on rejoicing to the end,
Wi’ ane anither.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEVIL.
Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.
MEN say the De’il is dead at last,
And that his course is ended,
Which sure must be an unco loss
To those whom he befriended.
No doubt he managed to evade
The sinner’s awful sentence,
By that last trick, so often played,
Of a death-bed repentance.
Alas! alas! we dinna ken
What will be done without him,
For all the pious sons of men
Made such a rant about him.
Whene’er they chanced to gang agley,
Or did a deed of evil,
Or winked at sin upon “the sly,”
’Twas all laid to the Deevel.
But henceforth they must bear their sin,
And come to the confession,
Without a single hope to win
A pardon for transgression;
Unless, indeed, they try the plan
Of wise old Orthodoxy,
Invented for puir sinful man,
O’ saving souls by proxy.
But hoolie! what a grand mistake
Was made at the creation,
That God should e’er a De’il make,
To peril men’s salvation.
He might have made puir man, nae doubt,
To grace a greater debtor,
Had he but left the De’il out,
Or only made man better.
I wad na mock at honest faith,
Or utter thought profanely,
But then ’tis better for us baith,
That truth be spoken plainly.
The great, guid God, who loves us a’,
Is sure misrepresented,
Whene’er men say he cursed us a’
In what he could prevented.
And as for Hornie--Nickie-ben--
Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,--
I dinna think that he has been,
The cause o’ all man’s evil.
Now that the puir old soul is gone,
He does na’ seem so hateful,
And those who live, his loss to mourn,
Should speak na’ word ungrateful.
The clergy, sure, have lost a friend
Who never had a rival--
And henceforth all their hopes must end,
O’ raising a revival.
For when a rout and rant they made,
To turn puir souls frae error,
The De’il was half their stock in trade,
To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror.
The politicians might as weel
Gie o’er each vain endeavor--
What unco sorrow must they feel,
Now he is gone forever!
In all their dealings, hand in hand,
They went with him thegither,
They executed what he planned,
And each helped on the ither.
And then the long-faced, praying saints,
Who worshiped God on Sunday,
And set aside their pious feints,
To serve the De’il on Monday--
They evermore, with empty word,
Professed their hate of evil;
But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,”
They said aside, “Guid Devil!”
We dinna ken what caused his death,
Or ended his probation,
Whether it was that he lacked breath,
Or lacked appreciation.
Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin”
Has proved too tough a question;
He took it for his meat within,
And died o’ indigestion.
Farewell! farewell! auld Nickie-ben;
We trust ye are forgiven,
For doubtless ye made haste to men’,[19]
And make your peace wi’ heaven.
We leave your burial, guid or bad,
To Truth, as undertaker,
And your puir soul, such as ye had,
Commend unto its Maker.
FRATERNITY.
COULD ye but ken, ye sons o’ men,
How truly ye are brithers,
Ye’d make guid speed to stand agreed,
Tho’ born o’ various mithers.
Ane common breath, ane common death,
Ane hame in Heaven above ye--
Ye are the fruit frae one great root
In the guid God who lo’es ye.
All high and low, all empty show,
All envious differences,
Will fade from sight and vanish quite,
When men come to their senses.
Each living man works out the plan
For which he was intended,
And he does best, who will na’ rest
Until his work is ended.
Your neebors’ blame, or sinful shame,
Should gie your soul na’ pleasure,
For while ye judge, wi’ cruel grudge,
You fill your ain sad measure.
The De’il himsel’ could scarcely tell
Which o’ ye was the better;
He wad be laith to leave ye baith,
While either was his debtor.
Here in life’s school wi’ pain and dool,[20]
You get your education,
While mony a trip and sinful slip
Helps on the soul’s salvation.
The unco skeigh,[21] wi’ heads full high,
Wha feel themselves maist holy,
Oft learn through sin how to begin
_True_ life amang the lowly.
Baith you and I may gang agley,[22]
For ’tis a common failin’;
But hauld away! we need na’ stay
A weepin’ and a wailin’.
The God aboon cares not how soon
We leave our sins behind us;
He does not hate us in that state,
Nor set the De’il to mind us.
And as for Hell, o’ which men tell,
I’m sure o’ the opinion,
There’s na’ such place o’ “saving grace”
In all the Lord’s dominion.
And those who rave, puir souls to save,
Wi’ long-faced, pious fleechin’,[23]
Will find far hence, that _common sense_
Is better than _such_ preachin’.
That which ye ca’ the power o’ law,
Is but a puir invention;
It counts the deed as evil seed,
But winks at the intention.
Could men but be mair truly free,
In some things less restrickéd,
The world wad find the human kind
Wad na’ be half sae wicked.
The pent-up steed kept short o’ feed
Is wildest in his roamin’;
And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams,
Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’.
Therefore (I pray take what I say
In spirit, not in letter)
Mankind should be like rivers, free--
The less they’re damned the better.
You need na’ heed the grousome creed
Which tells ye o’ God’s anger;
On Nature’s page frae age to age,
His love is written stranger.
God’s providence, in ony sense,
Has never been one-sided,
And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel,
He amply has provided.
The winter’s snaw, the birken shaw,[24]
The gowans[25] brightly springing,
The murky night, the rosy light,
The laverocks[26] gayly singing,
The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27]
The cushat[28] fondly mated,
All join to tell how unco well
God lo’es all things created.
Then dinna strive to live and thrive
Sae selfish and unthinkin’,
But firmly stand, and lend a hand
To keep the weak frae sinkin’.
’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake,
A trusty fier[29] in sorrow,
Wha spends his gear[30] wi’out a fear
O’ what may be to-morrow.
The preachers say, there’s far awa’
A land o’ milk and honey,
Where all is free as barley brie,
And wi’out price or money;
But _here_ the meat o’ love is sweet,
For souls in sinful blindness,
And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]--
“The milk o’ human kindness.”
The lift aboon[32] will welcome sune
The wayworn and the weary,
And angels fair will greet them there,
Sae winsome and sae cheery.
But while they stay, make smooth the way,
Through all life’s wintry weather,
Until ane bield[33] and common shield,
Shall hauld ye all thegither.
OWEENA.
ONCE, when Death, the mighty hunter,
Bent his bow and sent an arrow
Through the shadows of the forest,
Harming not the Bear or Panther,
Harming not the Owl or Raven,
In the bosom of Oweena,
Fairest of the Indian maidens,
Was the fatal arrow hidden.
On the lodge of Massa-wam-sett
Fell a deep and dreadful shadow;
He, the wise and warlike Sachem,
Mourned in silence for Oweena;
But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka,
Like a tall pine in the tempest,
Tossed her arms in wildest anguish,
Pouring forth her lamentation:
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su![34]
O my darling! my Oweena!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men--[35]
I shall never see thee more!
“Ho-bo-mo-co, evil Spirit,
Hiding darkly in the forest,
Making shadow in the sunshine,
You have stolen her away.
“She was like the flowers in spring time,
She was like the singing waters,
She was like the summer sunshine,
Neen wo-ma-su! She is dead!
“Hear me! Hear me, O Great Spirit!
I will bring thee Bear and Bison,
I will bring thee Beads and Wampum;
Wilt thou give her back to me?
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
O my darling! My Oweena!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,
I shall never see thee more!”
Ceaseless was her plaintive wailing,
Even when the fair Oweena
Slept beneath the pine trees’ shadow,
In the green and silent forest,
Where the birds sang in the branches,
Where the roses of the summer,
And the vines, with slender fingers,
Clasped their loving hands above her.
From the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,
While the brave old chieftain slumbered,
In the silence of the midnight,
To the grave stole Nah-me-o-ka,
Pouring forth her lamentations:
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,
I shall never see thee more!”
Once, the tempest, on its war-path,
Painted all the sky with blackness,
Sped the arrows of the lightning,
And the war-whoop of the thunder,
Made the mighty forest tremble.
But it moved not Nah-me-o-ka,
Only moaning, “Neen wo-ma-su!
I shall never see thee more!”
All the forest leaves were weeping,
And the black wings of the darkness,
Brooding over Nah-me-o-ka,
Filled her with a chilling shudder:
And the thunder seemed to mutter
With a cruel exultation,
“You shall never see her more.”
But thereafter came a whisper--
“I am with you, O my mother!
For I cannot turn my footsteps
To the land of the Great Spirit,
While I hear your mournful wailing,
Calling, calling me again.
“In the hunting-grounds beyond me
There are sunshine, peace and plenty,
But I wander, sad and lonely,
In the land of death and darkness,
Listening only to your cry.
“Let me go to the Great Spirit,
To the lodge of peace and plenty,
To the land of summer sunshine,
That with life and strength and gladness,
I may meet you yet again.”
Then the soft hand of Oweena
Gently lifted Nah-me-o-ka,
Who with wondering eyes beheld her,
Like a light amid the darkness.
And Oweena safely led her
Through the tempest and the midnight,
To the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,
Kissed her tenderly--and vanished.
From that time did Nah-me-o-ka
Dry her tears, and cease her moaning,
For she said, “I will not keep her
From the land of summer sunshine,
From the home of peace and plenty,
From the lodge of the Great Spirit.
Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
In the land of the Hereafter
I shall meet her yet again.”
GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD.
“On returning to the inn, he found there a wandering minstrel--a
woman--singing, and accompanying her voice with the music of a
harp. The burden of her song was, ‘Gone is gone, and dead is dead.’
The utter hopelessness of these words filled his soul with anguish.
‘O,’ he exclaimed, ‘thou loved and lost one! patient and
long-suffering, would that I could call thee back again, not to
forgive me--O, no!--but rather that I might have the consolation of
showing thee, by my repentance, how differently I would conduct
towards thee now.”--JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead!”
Words to hopeless sorrow wed--
Words from deepest anguish wrung,
Which a lonely wand’rer sung,
While her harp prolonged the strain,
Like a spirit’s cry of pain
When all hope with life is fled:
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Mournful singer! hearts unknown
Thrill responsive to that tone;
By a common weal and woe,
Kindred sorrows all must know.
Lips all tremulous with pain
Oft repeat that sad refrain
When the fatal shaft is sped--
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Pain and death are everywhere--
In the earth, and sea, and air;
And the sunshine’s golden glance,
And the heaven’s serene expanse,
With a silence calm and high,
Seem to mock that mournful cry
Wrung from hearts by hope unfed--
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
O, ye sorrowing ones, arise;
Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes;
Lift your faces to the light;
Read Death’s mystery aright.
Life unfolds from life within,
And with death does life begin.
Of the soul can ne’er be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
As the stars, which, one by one,
Lit their torches at the sun,
And across ethereal space
Swept each to its destined place,
So the soul’s Promethean fire,
Kindled never to expire,
On its course immortal sped,
Is not gone, and is not dead.
By a Power to thought unknown,
Love shall ever seek its own.
Sundered not by time or space,
With no distant dwelling-place,
Soul shall answer unto soul,
As the needle to the pole.
Leaving grief’s lament unsaid,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Evermore Love’s quickening breath
Calls the living soul from death;
And the resurrection’s power
Comes to every dying hour.
When the soul, with vision clear,
Learns that Heaven is always near,
Never more shall it be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
THE SPIRIT TEACHER.