Give him room
Proudly, Centuries! in your tomb.
Now that his weary work is done,
Honor and rest he well hath won.
Let him who is first among you pay
Homage to him who comes this day,
Bidding him pass to his destined place,
Noblest of all his noble race!
Make ye room
For the kingly dead in the silent tomb!
THE RIVER OTTER
A FRAGMENT
A hundred times the Summer’s fragrant blooms
Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes;
A hundred times, along the mountain-side,
Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide;
A hundred times has kindly Winter spread
His snowy mantle o’er the violet’s bed;
A hundred times has Earth rejoiced to hear
The Spring’s light footsteps in the forest sere,
Since on yon grassy knoll the quick, sharp stroke
Of the young woodman’s axe the silence broke.
Not then did these encircling hills look down
On quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town.
No church-spires pointed to the arching skies;
No wandering lovers saw the moon arise;
No childish laughter mingled with the song
Of the fair Otter, as it flowed along
As brightly then as now. Ah! little recked
The joyous river, when the sunshine flecked
Its dancing waters, that no human eye
Gave it glad welcome as it frolicked by!
The long, uncounted years had come and flown,
And it had still swept on, unseen, unknown,
Biding its time. No minstrel sang its praise,
No poet named it in immortal lays.
It played no part in legendary lore,
And young Romance knew not its winding shore.
But in her own loveliness Nature is glad,
And little she cares for man’s smile or his frown;
In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,
Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!
And over our beautiful Otter the trees
Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;
And the tremulous violet lifted an eye
As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.
The harebell trembled on its stem
Down where the rushing waters gleam,
A sapphire on the broidered hem
Of some fair Naiad of the stream.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew,
Gayly as those that bloom for you.
And deep within the forest shade,
Where broadest noon mere twilight made,
Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung,
And tiny bells by zephyrs rung,
Made tinkling music till the day
In solemn splendor died away.
The woods were full of praise and prayer,
Although no human tongue was there;
For every pine and hemlock sung
The grand cathedral aisles among,
And every flower that gemmed the sod
Looked up and whispered, “Thou art God.”
The birds sung as they sing to-day,
A song of love and joy alway.
The brown thrush from its golden throat
Poured out its long, melodious note;
The pigeons cooed; the veery threw
Its mellow thrill from spray to spray;
The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,
And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,”
From set of sun to break of day.
The partridge reared her fearless brood
Safe in the darkling solitude,
And the bald eagle built its nest
High on the tall cliff’s craggy crest.
And often, when the still moonlight
Made all the lonely valley bright,
Down from the hills its thirst to slake,
The deer trod softly through the brake;
While far away the spotted fawn
Waited the coming of the dawn,
And trembled when the panther’s scream
Startled it from a troubled dream.
The black bear roamed the forest wide;
The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side;
The wild-cat’s silent, stealthy tread
Was, even there, a fear and dread;
The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound,
That woke the slumbering echoes round;
And the burrowing mink and otter hid
In their holes the tangled roots amid.
Lords of their limitless domain,
Of hill and dale, of mount and plain,
The wild things dreamed not of the hour
When they should own their Master’s power!
PAST AND PRESENT
(DRIFTWOOD)
. . . Grand, heroic, true,
Faithful and brave thine earnest work to do,
O glorious present! we rejoice in thee,
Thou noble nurse of great deeds yet to be!
Hast thou not shown us that our mother Earth
Still, in exultant joy, gives heroes birth?
Do not the old romances that our youth,
Revered and honored as the truest truth,
Grow pale and dim before the facts sublime
Thy pen has written on the scroll of Time?
Ah! never yet did poet’s tongue,
Though like a silver bell it rung;
Or minstrel, o’er his sounding lyre
Breathing the old, prophetic fire;
Or harper, in the storied walls
Of Scotia’s proud, baronial halls—
Where mail-clad men with sword and spear
Waited entranced the song to hear,
That through the stormy midnight hour
Fast held them in its spell of power—
Ah! never yet did they rehearse,
In flowing rhyme or stately verse,
The praise of deeds more nobly done,
Or tell of fields more grandly won!
We laud thee, we praise thee, we bless thee to-day!
At thy feet, lowly bending, glad homage we pay!
Thou hast taught us that men are as brave as of yore;
That the day of great deeds and great thought is not o’er;
That the courage undaunted, the far-reaching faith,
The strength that unshaken looks calmly on death,
The self-abnegation that hastens to lay
Its all on the altar, have not passed away.
Thou hast taught us that “country” is more than a name;
That honor unsullied is better than fame;
Thou hast proved that while man can still battle for truth,
Even boyhood can give up the promise of youth,
And, yielding its life with a smile and a sigh,
Say, “’Tis sweet for my God and my country to die.”
O heart-searching Present, thy sons have gone down
To the night of the grave in their day of renown!
Thy daughters have watched by the hearth-stone in vain
For the loved and the lost that returned not again.
No Spartans were they—yet with tears falling fast,
Their faith and their patience endured to the last;
And God gave them strength to their dearest to say,
“Go ye forth to the fight, while we labor and pray!”
Thou hast opened thy coffers on land and on sea,
And broad-handed Charity, noble and free,
Has lavished thy bounties on friend and on foe,
Like the rain that, descending, falls softly and slow
On the just and the unjust, and never may know
The one from the other. When thy story is told
By some age that looks backward and calls thee “the old,”
It shall puzzle its sages, all great as thou art,
To tell which was greatest, thy head or thy heart!
Mighty words thy lips have spoken—
Strongest fetters thou hast broken—
And in tones like those of thunder,
When the clouds are rent asunder,
Thou hast made the Nations hear thee—
Thou hast bade the Tyrants fear thee—
And our hearts to-day proclaim thee,
As they oft have done before,
Fit to lead the glorious legions
Of the glorious days of yore!
Yet still, we pray thee, veil awhile
Thy splendor from our dazzled eyes
And hide the glory of thy smile,
Lest our souls wake to new surprise!
Bear with us while our feet to-day
Retrace a dim and shadowy way,
In search of what, it well may be,
Shall help to make us worthier thee!
* * * * *
And now, O, spirit of the Past, draw near,
And let us feel thy blessed presence here!
With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low,
We wait to hear thy garments’ rustling flow!
From all the conflicts of our busy life,
From all its bitter and enduring strife,
Its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil,
Its cares, its joys, its sorrows and its toil,
Its aspirations, that too often seem
Like the remembered phantoms of a dream,
We turn aside. This hour is thine alone,
And none shall share the grandeur of thy throne.
Ah! thou art here! Beneath these whispering trees
Thy breath floats softly on the passing breeze;
We feel the presence that we cannot see,
And every moment draws us nearer thee.
Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes,
In whose rare depths such wondrous meaning lies—
Thy dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground—
Thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned—
Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene!
There is no expectation in thy mien,
For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor pain
Can e’er disturb thy placid calm again.
What is this veil that hides thee from our sight?
Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright!
It may not be! Our eyes are dim,
Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears;
We hear no more the choral hymn
The angels sing among the spheres.
Weary and worn and tempest-tossed,
Much have we gained—and something lost—
Since in the sunbeams golden glow,
The rippling river’s silvery flow,
The song of bird or murmuring bee,
The fragrant flower, the stately tree,
The royal pomp of sunset skies,
And all earth’s varied harmonies,
We saw and heard what nevermore
Can Earth or Heaven to us restore,
And felt a child’s unquestioning faith
In childhood’s mystic lore!
* * * * *
Yet could our voices reach the slumbering dead
Who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed,
This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught—
_That they are heroes to our eyes and thought_.
For they were men who never dreamed of fame:
They did not toil to make themselves a name;
They little fancied that when years had passed,
And the long century had died at last,
Another age should make their graves a shrine,
And humble chaplets for their memory twine.
They simply strove, as other men may strive,
Full, earnest lives in sober strength to live;
They did the duty nearest to their hand;
Subdued wild nature as at God’s command;
Laid the broad acres open to the sun,
And made fair homes in forests dark and dun;
Built churches, founded schools, established laws,
Kindly and just and true to freedom’s cause;
Resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts,
In war, as well as peace, played well their parts.
Their men were brave; their women pure and true;
Their sons ashamed no honest work to do;
And while they dreamed no dreams of being great,
They did great deeds, and conquered hostile Fate.
We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day;
At their graves, as their right, tearful homage we pay!
And the laurel-crowned Present comes humbly at last,
And bends by our side at the shrine of the Past.
With the hands that such burdens unshrinking have borne,
From the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn,
She takes off the chaplet, and lays it with tears,
That she cares not to hide, at the feet of the Years.
Hark! a breath of faint music, a murmur of song!
A form of strange beauty is floating along
On the soft summer air, and the Future draws near,
With a light on her young face, unshadowed and clear.
Two garlands she bears in the arms that not yet
Have toiled ’neath the burden and heat of the day;
Lo! both are of amaranth, fragrant and wet
With the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway.
Oh! well may we hush our vain babblings—and wait!
He who merits the crown, wears it sooner or late!
On the brow of the Present, the grave of the Past,
The wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last!