To dim sea-caves where bright treasures sleep,
And dareth with curious quest explore
The ancient wonders of Ocean's floor.
It fearless roams over Deserts vast,
Where destruction rides on the Simoom's blast,
And trackless sands have for ages frowned
O'er cities in ancient song renowned.
It climbs where the dazzling glaciers lie,
Changeless and cold, 'neath a glowing sky,
And leaves the trace of its triumphs proud
Above the regions of storm and cloud.
The Ocean, once an untravelled waste,
By feet adventurous never passed,
Spread forth to the solemn skies alone
Its restless waters to man unknown.
Imagination, with eager quest,
Went forth o'er its bosom with vague unrest,
To loneliest regions devoid of light,
Where dark Cimmerii dwelt in night,--
Or peopled its realms, undiscovered, lone,
With phantoms of horror and shapes unknown.
But Labor came, and with kindling glance
Boldly he traversed the far expanse,
Scatt'ring the shadows of ancient night,
And lifting a glad New World to light.
Now, a realm of life is the glorious Sea--
A peopled realm of the bold and free--
Where the proud ship glides like a thing of life,
And laughs at the storms and the billows' strife,--
Vast highway of nations, above whose deeps
Commerce with tireless navies sweeps,
And Life goes forth in its glad unrest,
Buoyantly treading the waves' white crest.
Honor to Labor!--his strong right hand
Old, frightful chasms has boldly spanned,
And hung his teeming thoroughfares high
'Twixt rushing torrent and bending sky.
He has harnessed Steam to the flying car,
And sent it from ocean to ocean afar,--
Pierced strong-ribbed mountains that barred his way,
And oped through their caverns a broad highway,--
Taught the lightning to carry his messages forth
From West to East, and from South to North,
And flash his thoughts through the depths profound
Of Ocean, the Earth's circumference round,--
Made Light his servant to do his will--
With faultless pencil and subtlest skill
Limning the features most dear in life,
Of friend, or husband, or child, or wife,
And compressing into a single hour
The work of months of artistic power.
Honor to Labor!--with steady eye
He has fearlessly traversed the midnight sky,
And followed the mazy, perplexing dance
Of planets and moons thro' the far expanse,--
Their orbits, periods, weight and size,
Studied with heedful and cautious eyes,
And forced the haughty, imperial sun
To answer his inquiries one by one.
He has tracked the comet's erratic flight
Through the silent star-fields of primal night,--
Walked through the depths of old nebulae
With flashing glance and with footstep free,
And seen spin round him in wildering flight
Systems and suns, while the infinite
Of God's great universe stretched away
Farther far than e'en thought might stray
"Honor to Labor!"--the mariner sings,
As forth to the breezes his sails he flings;--
"It has made us lords of the boundless deep--
Fearlessly over the waves we sweep!"
"Honor to Labor!"--the traveller cries,
As forth in the rushing tram he flies;--
"We may rival the speed of the bird's swift wing
As he joyously soars thro' the skies of Spring,
And the fetterless wind on its pinions free,
Is scarcely more fleet in its course than we!"
"Honor to Labor!"--the student cries,
As he gazes around him with joyful eyes,--
"Honor to Labor!--the teeming press
Pours forth its treasures the world to bless!
From the pictured pages where childhood's eye
Findeth a world of bright imagery,
To the massive tome 'mid whose treasures vast,
Lie the time-dimmed records of ages past,
We may wander, and revel, yet ever find
Supplies exhaustless for heart and mind
We may turn to the Past--to the ages fled--
And converse hold with the gifted dead,--
Old climes of historic fame explore,
And gather the gems of their buried lore,--
With Prophet-bards seek inspiring themes,
Or muse alone by old fabled streams,--
With the Poet take our enraptured flight,
And woo the Muse on Parnassus' height,--
Take fair Philosophy by the hand,
And roam with her through her native land,--
May win from the God-inspired of Earth
Heavenly treasures of priceless worth,--
Till the mental stores of all ages flown,
And all gifted minds, we have made our own.".
Honor to Labor of body or mind,
That hath for its object the good of mankind!
The Farmer, who cheerily ploughs the soil,
And gathers the fruit of his hopeful toil,--
The strong Mechanic, whose manly brow
Weareth of labor the healthful glow,--
The bold Inventor, beneath whose hands
The useful engine completed stands,--
The Artist, who, with unrivalled skill,
Creations of loveliness forms at will,--
The Teacher, who sows in the minds of youth
Seeds of precious undying truth,--
The pale-faced Student, who, worn with toil,
Consumes o'er his studies the midnight oil,--
The man of Science, with earnest mind,
Who toils to enlighten and bless mankind--
To themselves, their race, and their country true.
Honor, all honor, to such is due!
THE MISER
The night was dark and dreary,
And the autumn-wind went by
With a sound like Sorrow's wailing
In its sadly mournful cry;--
The yew trees, old and drooping,
Shook in the angry blast,
And the moon looked, pale and tearful,
Through the clouds that hurried past.
In a dreary room and fireless,
With mouldy walls and damp,
A grey, old man was seated
Beside a flickering lamp;--
An old man, worn and wasted,
With bent and shivering form,
And haggard looks, sat trembling
At the moaning of the storm.
The casements, old and creaking,
Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
His treasures from his grasp,
And unseen fingers tight'ning
On his throat their icy clasp.
Again the strong wind rattled
The broken window-pane,
And the dying taper wavered
In the rude blast yet again--
For one brief instant wavered,
Then paled its sickly light,
And the shuddering wretch was shrouded
In impenetrable night.
The dull, grey light of morning
Illumed the mountain-height,
And Earth lay, cold and shiv'ring,
In the blanched, autumnal light,
But a sunbeam struggled faintly
Through the Miser's broken shed,
And lit the pale, set features
Of the still, unshrouded dead.
For there, alone, and trembling
With the horrors of affright,
He had met the king of terrors
'Mid the darkness of the night;
And with gold enough to satiate
A monarch's haughty pride,
In fear, and rags, and misery
Of _want_ the wretch had died!
BROKEN
I.
Broken!
It's only a ring--a plain, old ring,
Worn down to a thread almost--
Fling it away--the useless thing!
What value now can it boast?--
Fling it away!
Yet stay!--oh stay
Ere you cast it away!
There's a tale of the vanished years
That ever will cling,
To that broken ring,
That hallows and endears--
Oh stay!
In vain!--in vain!--What matters it now
That tenderest memories cling
To that thread of gold so wasted and old--
Who cares for a broken ring?--
Fling it away!
II.
Broken!
It's only a vase--an old, stone vase--
Ancient and out of style--
That has stood for years in the chimney place,
Provoking many a smile--
Throw it away!
Yet stay!--that vase
Held honored place
In the sight of prince and peer
And the flowers it held
Were gathered of old
By the lovely and the dear!--
Oh stay!
In vain!--In vain!--What matters it now
How honored was once its place!
It is broken, and old, and the hearts are cold
That cherished the old stone vase--
Throw it away!
III.
Broken!
It's only a promise--as light as air--
Though earnestly, solemnly given,
Made to be broken--yet who should care?--
Do you think it was heard in Heaven?--
Break it to day!
Yet stay!--that breath
Is a blast of death
To an innocent human heart!
Unsay the word,
For God has heard!
And He taketh the wronged one's part---
Break it _not_ to-day!
In vain!--in vain!--What matters it now?
It was only a breath--no more!
A faithless promise--a traitor's vow--
Such things have happened before--
It's broken to-day!
IV.
Broken!
It's only a heart--a human heart--
That has throbbed for years and years,
With the burning pain and the cruel smart
Whose agony knows no tears--
Cast it away'
Yet stay!--oh stay!
A father, grey
And sorrowful, prayed for her long
And a mother's love
Bore to God above
The tale of her poor childs wrong!--
Cast it _not_ away!
In vain!--'Tis a story old and worn--
This story of falsehood's art--
Of the harsh world's withering blight and scorn,--
Who cares for the broken heart
That's been cast away?
"TO OUR PARENTS"
WRITTEN BY REQUEST, FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING
Full fifty years together--
Father and mother dear--
Through pleasant summer weather,
Or wintry tempests drear,--
Thro' sunshine and thro' shadow,
Oft travel sore and tried,
Yet strong to aid each other,
You've journeyed side by side
A few brief years of climbing,--
One glad, exultant glance
At the sun bright world around you,
At the smiling heaven's expanse,--
And then, the slow descending
Into the vale below,
Where the light with shade is blending,
And the deamy waters flow
Full fifty years of travel--
Then, on your worn staves rest,
And welcome home your children,
And many an honored guest,--
We come to give you greeting,--
We come to bring you cheer,--
To hail with glad rejoicing
This fiftieth wedded year!
We know your hearts are asking
For _one_ who is not here--
Whose voice was sweetest music,
Whose smile was very dear,
But the blessed Heaven that holds him
Is very near to you,
And the warm love that enfolds him,
Enfolds his parents too.
Then let the tears we're shedding
Have naught of grief's alloy;--
And let this GOLDEN WEDDING
Be one of tranquil joy.
God bless our honored father
God bless our mother dear!
And a thousand, thousand welcomes
To this fiftieth wedded year.
UNDER THE ROD
"Be Still, and know that I am God!"
Be silent, Soul!--though dark thy path and dreary,
And wild with storm, yet what is that to thee?
Though thou art faint, and desolate, and weary,
Thy God hath willed thus,--so let it be!
Murmurs the mountain oak when storms assail it,
And warring tempests wildly shake its form?
Firmer within the earth its root it striketh,
And gathers strength and vigor from the storm.
Be silent, Soul!--the hand of God is on thee!
And, as a skillful gard'ner, from the vine
Doth lop away each worthless branch and barren,
So He would lop each fruitless bough of thine.
Ah! thou art earth-bound, prone, and lowly creeping,
clinging to things too frail to be thy stay;
Jesus, with watchful care His vineyard keeping,
Would lift thee up to sunshine and the day.
Be silent, Soul!--thou'rt not thy own;--the Saviour
With blood and anguish bought thee on the tree!
Why murmur, then, that He should seek to make thee
Holy, and pure, and fit with Him to be?
This world is not thy home!--cease thy weak clinging
To its frail reeds, O thou whose mansion blest
Is where Life's river flows with ceaseless singing
Through the fair Paradise where angels rest.
Be silent, Soul--in the great heavenly Temple,
The Master-Builder hath a niche for thee;
And thou must pass beneath His forming chisel,
If thou a goodly, polished stone wouldst be.
Bless God for every stroke that severs from thee
The gross and earthy, bringing to the light
The intrinsic worth His Spirit hath wrought in thee,--
The gem His hand would polish and make bright
Be silent, Soul!--thy God is ever near thee,
Whether thy path 'mid storm or sunshine lie,--
Whether the morning's tender radiance cheer thee,
Or rayless darkness veil the midnight sky!
What matter though thy pathway lone and dreary
Should _all_ with weary, trembling feet be trod?
Enough for thee to know, thy Lord is near thee,
And the rough road leads up to Heaven and God!
THE WHITE STONE CANOE
AN INDIAN TRADITION; VERSIFIED FROM SCHOOLCRAFT
It was a day of festive-mirth,
And bright the Indian wigwams shone,
For 'twas a chieftain's bridal-day,
And gladness dwelt in every tone;
But ere the glow of sunset hours
Upon the western hills was shed,
Deep sadness rested on those bowers--
The bride was numbered with the dead.
Days passed; and still beside her tomb
The stricken lover bowed his head;
And-nightly, through the forest's gloom
The stars beheld him with his dead.
In vain did grey-haired chieftains urge
The youthful hunter to the chase;--
He heard, yet heeded not their words,
For grief had chained him to the place.
They laid his war-club by his side,
His bow and arrows, too, they brought,
And sang of glorious deeds of might
That stately chiefs of yore had wrought;
But listlessly he heard their songs,
Flung back his bow with sullen pride,
And by the silent grave sat down
Where they had laid his youthful bride.
But pleasant memories came at length
Of what he learned in boyhood's day,
Of a bright path that led from earth
O'er the blue mountains far away
To the best land where spirits dwell,
The home of GHEEZHA MONEDO, [1]
Where parted loved ones meet again
Beyond the reach of pain and woe.
Then from the ground the warrior rose,
And bade the sleeping dust adieu,
And started for the spirit-shore
With the bright southern skies in view;--
Forests, and hills, and vales, and streams,
In his quick flight he left behind;--
Earth's stores of rare and lovely things
Had nought to charm the wand'rer's mind.
The snow, that lay upon the earth
When he forsook his native hills,
Had slowly melted from his path,
And sought the bed of crystal rills;
The woods assumed a gayer hue,
The flowers put on the bloom of spring,
The clear sky shone with brighter blue,
And birds sped by on joyous wing.
By these blest signs the warrior knew
That he was travelling aright;
For old Tradition taught him so,
And on he pressed with fresh delight.
At length the shining path he spied
Winding amid a beauteous grove,
Up to the summit of a hill
That rose the verdant plain above.
High on the summit stood a lodge
To which this mystic pathway led;--
Thither, with undeclining zeal
And ardent hopes, the warrior sped.
An old man met him at the door,
With piercing eyes and long, white hair,
Who took the wand'rer by the hand,
And kindly bade him welcome there.
"I know thy quest!" the old man said,
"Leave here thy arrows and thy bow;
Thy body, too, thou must forsake--
Thither thy soul alone can go.
Thou seest yon gulf, and far away
Beyond, a region bright and fair,
Whose blue hills in the distance rise,
Warrior, the land of souls is there'
"My lodge the gate of entrance is,--
I'll guard whatever thou leav'st behind,
And thou may'st hasten on thy way,
A joyous spirit unconfined."
Thus saying, the aged man withdrew;
And the freed traveller sped away--
As though his feet were changed to wings--
Upon his fair, but shadowy way.
Shadowy indeed, for all he passed--
Trees, plants, and flowers no substance wore,
And birds and beasts were but the souls
Of those that dwelt on earth before;--
Yet birds swept by on joyous wing,
And, pausing, gazed the timid deer
With fearless look, as if to say,
"We have no strife or bloodshed here!"
Onward he went, till, just before,
A beauteous lake appeared in view;
And at the water's edge he spied
A snow-white, shining, stone canoe.
Lightly the warrior sprang within,
And grasped the paddle by his side;
When turning, lo, beside him sat
The spirit of his beauteous bride
She sat within a light canoe,
And sweetly beckoned him away
To a green isle that, like a gem,
Amidst the sparkling waters lay;
High leaped the waves, yet on they pressed,
Wreath after wreath of foam they passed,--
Thus gliding o'er the water's breast
They reached the wished-for shore at last.
Together o'er those verdant plains,
'Mid fadeless flowers the lovers walked;
And of their native hills and streams,
And forest-homes, they freely talked.
There were no storms, no chilling winds,
No frost, no blight, to dim the flowers,
But never-fading summer reigned
Amid those calm and peaceful bowers.
None hungered there--no death, no pain,
No blighted hope, no sleepless fear;
No mourner sorrowed o'er the dead,
And no bereaved one dropped a tear;
Serenest skies were spread above,
Bright flowers were blooming all around
And every eye was filled with love,
And music dwelt in every sound.
"Here let me stay!" the warrior cried,
"On this secluded, happy shore;
Here, with my loved and beauteous bride,
Where bitter partings are no more!"
Thus spake the youth, but, ere the words
Had died away upon the breeze,
There came a low, sweet spirit-voice
Murm'ring among the sheltering trees.
"Warrior!"--thus spake the breezy voice--
"Return unto thy native shore;
Resume again thy mortal frame,
And mingle with thy tribe once more.
Listen to him who keeps the gate,
And he will tell thee what to do;
Obey his voice, return to earth,
And virtue's pleasant paths pursue.
"Thy time to die has not arrived;
But let each gloomy thought be still,
Thy maiden waits thee on this shore,
Subject no more to pain or ill!
In never-fading youth arrayed.
Here shall ye dwell in peace at last,
When thou hast done thy work on earth,
And life's brief wanderings are past.
"Return!--thou yet must lead thy tribe
Through many a wild, adventurous scene;
But when a good old age is reached,
And thou their leader long hast been,
Then will I call thee to thy rest
In this bright island of the skies,
Where thou mayst mingle with the blest,
While long, succeeding ages rise!"
The chieftain woke--'twas fancy all,
The bright revealings of a dream;--
Around him still the forest stood
Beneath the cold moon's placid beam.
Up from the ground he proudly rose,
Took up his war-club and his bow,
Quelled in his soul the bitter floods
Of disappointment and of woe,--
And, turning from the grave of her
Who erst was all the world to him,
He wiped away the gathering tears
That made his eagle-glances dim;
And with a proud, majestic step
He slowly from the grave withdrew,
Resolved to hope and labor on,
With better prospects in his view
[Footnote 1: Merciful Spirit.]
GONE BEFORE
(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)
Thou art but gone before--
Gone to that unknown shore
Toward which _my_ feet are journeying swiftly on
Thou hast but laid thy head
_First_ with the dreamless dead,
I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.
Methinks 'twas sweet to die,
Ere childhood's purity
Had been polluted by sin's withering breath;
Ere Care's pale, haggard mien
Thy laughing eye had seen,
Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!
We weep--yet thou art blest!
We mourn--but thou'rt at rest!
Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!
Not that thy race is run,
Thy brief life-journey done,
And thou departed with thy Lord to be.
O no!--yet we may weep,
That sin, so strong, so deep
A root within our tempted souls should have;
That we, with mortal fear,
Still trembling, doubting here,
Should cling to Earth in terror of the grave!
To Earth, whose very bloom
Speaks of the dust, the tomb,--
Whose fairest blossoms round our footsteps die,--
Whose hopes are fraught with fears,--
Whose smiles are washed with tears,--
Whose sweetest songs are burdened with a sigh!
Sleep on, thou early blest!
No cares can mar thy rest,
No years of grief and trial are for thee;
No blighted hopes, no fears,
No wasted, sin-cursed years--
Joy for thee, little one, thou'rt free-aye, free!
Now with the peaceful dead
Lay we thy beauteous head,
No mourner's dirge for thee shall chanted be!
So may we rest at last,
When all our toils are past,
And rise to tune an angel's harp with thee!
JOHANNA
(HIAWATHA MEASURE.)
'Twas a balmy day in Autumn,
In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn,
When from out the quiet woodland
Sounds of rustling leaves came only--
Leaves that floated softly earthward--
And the streamlets had a murmur
Such as wanders through our visions
In the hushed and starry midnight--
Low, soft murmur, full of music.
With the small hand of her darling
Clasped in her's, there came a mother
To an Artist--fondly asking
For the picture of her pet-lamb--
Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life,
Full of merry, ringing laughter--
Laughter that went up unceasing
Like the happy chime of streamlets
Singing thro' some mountain valley,--
Like the bird-song in the forest
In the time of early roses,--
Like the tinkle of sweet waters
Dripping o'er a marble fountain.
And the child's glad eyes grew brighter
As she saw her own sweet image
From its little case look smiling
Back upon her radiant features--
Saw the clustering curls fall softly
Round the peach-blow neck and bosom,--
Saw the lips, two tiny rose-buds,
And the scarce-shown pearls that edged them,--
And the quivering, laughing lashes
Of the eager eyes were lifted
In glad wonder, as she murmured
"Oh, it's pretty!--ain't it, ma ma?"
Came another day in Autumn--
Gloomy, sad, tempestuous Autumn--
And from out the moaning forest
Came the sound of rushing tempests
As they dashed the sere leaves downward
From the darkly tossing branches,--
And the turbid streams were chafing
With the rush of swollen waters
That, in tones all hoarse and angry,
To the rude winds made replying.
With the hot hand of her darling
Clasped in hers, that same fond mother
O'er a little couch was bending,
Where her little lamb lay moaning
In unquiet fevered slumbers.
Oft the blue-veined lids would tremble
O'er the half-veiled eyes, and sadly--
Painfully the lips would quiver,
As the sobbing breath came slowly
From the scarcely heaving bosom
Ah! that little lamb was treading
'Mid the shadows of the valley!--
And her spirit-ear, affrighted,
Just had caught the nearer murmur
Of the death-stream cold and sullen
Haply, wond'ring at the darkness
That was slowly settling round her.
But it passed, and o'er those features
Slowly broke a smile, so holy
That we deemed the angels gathered
Round her in the gloomy valley.
Then the life-light gently faded
From those eyes, as fades the sunset
From the peaceful summer heavens,--
Stiller grew the little bosom,--
And the sobbing breath grew fainter,--
And the fading smile more sweetly
Played around those lips, till slumber--
Strange, deep slumber slowly settled
In its marble stillness o'er her.
Ah!--that little tear-stained image
Now, is all that's left thee, mother,
Of thy little, dark-eyed daughter!
Ever, as it smiles upon thee
From its tiny case, how keenly
Will thy heart-strings thrill with anguish.
As that voice again comes to thee,
And again those sweet lips murmur--
"Oh it's pretty!--ain't it, ma-ma?"
SANZAS
"Whom have I in heaven but thee?"
'Twere nought to me, yon glorious arch of night,
Decked with the gorgeous blazonry of heaven,
If, to my faith, amid its splendors bright,
No vision of the Eternal One were given;
I could but view a dreary, soulless waste--
A vast expanse of solitude unknown;--
More cheerless for the splendors o'er it cast,
For all its grandeur more intensely lone.
'Twere nought to me, this ever-changing scene
Of earthly beauty, sunshine, and delight--
The wood's deep shadows and the valley's green,
Morn's tender glow, and sunset's splendors bright--
Nought, if my Father smiled not from the sky,
The cloud, the flower, the landscape, and the leaf;
My soul would pine 'mid Earth's vain pageantry,
And droop in hopeless orphanage and grief.
'Twere nought to me, the Ocean's far expanse,
If His perfections were not mirrored there,
Hopeless across the unmeasured waste I'd glance,
And clasp my hands in anguish, not in prayer,
Nought, Nature's anthem, ever swelling up
From Nature's myriad voices, for the hymn
Would breathe nor love, nor gratitude, nor hope,
Robbed of the tones that speak to me of Him.
This wondrous universe, how less than nought
Without my God--how desolate and drear!
A mockery Earth with her vain splendors fraught--
A gilded pageant every rolling sphere;
The noonday sun with all his glories crowned,
A sickly flame, would glimmer faint and pale;
And all Earth's melodies, their sweetness drowned,
Be but the utt'rance of a funeral wail!
CANADA
Fair land of peace!--to Britain's rule and throne
Adherent still, yet happier than alone,
And free as happy, and as brave as free,
Proud are thy children--justly proud, of thee!
Thou hast no streams renowned in classic lore,
No vales where fabled heroes moved of yore,
No hills where Poesy enraptured stood,
No mythic fountains, no enchanted wood;
But unadorned, rough, cold, and often stern,
The careless eye to other lands might turn,
And seek, where Nature's bloom is more intense,
Softer delights to charm the eye of sense.