Autobiographical Poems
Uring the last fifty years I have written a great many poems that might be called autobiographical. In the truest sense they record my own life history, because the most of them express some deep emotion; or recall some event in the life of my dearest friends; or revive some tender thought that I have not wished to pass unnoticed by those who do not know me so well. A number of them have been chosen for this book, not so much because of their literary merit, as because of the sentiments that they perpetuate. A few of them have been included in spite of the protests of modest souls whose worth happens therein to be duly recognized, but this is only one of the inadequate means that I have of expressing my gratitude and devotion to those who have paid me innumerable and tender attentions in times past and present.
Lines to My Mother
On My Birthday
My birthday eve is gone, mother,
And didst thou think of me?
Each moment while I counted o’er
My thoughts were all on thee,
And oft I wished thee here, mother,
Our social group to join;
For I long to clasp thine hand, mother,
And in thy arms recline.
My birthday eve is gone, mother,
The future who can know?
Oh, will my buoyant heart, as now,
With gladness still o’erflow?
Or will its trembling strings, mother,
Speak but a mournful tone?
And I, of all I love bereft,
Weep wretched and alone?
My birthday eve is gone, mother,
Friends gather round me now,
And they are sad, whene’er they mark
A shadow on my brow.
They sing my favorite lays, mother,
And many an hour beguile;
For they are dear as life to me, —
I live but in their smile.
185a
To My Sister, Mrs. Julia Athington (On the twentieth anniversary of her marriage)
Tell me, sister, does your memory
Touch its lyre and murmur low
How your heart of joy was dreaming,
Dreaming twenty years ago?
And the lovely wing of fancy,
With your smile of beauty played,
While you stood before the altar
In your bridal robe arrayed?
And to him who stood beside you,
All your fondest hopes were given,
Vows were breathed and words were spoken,
Read by seraph eyes in Heaven?
You have trod life’s vale together,
You have shared its good and ill,
Is your promise yet unbroken, —
Do you hold it sacred still?
Twenty years, and oh, how lightly,
Time has touched you as he passed,
Hardly do you feel his autumn:
It has brought no chilly blast.
Scarce a summer leaf has withered,
Scarce a silver thread appears;
Few the traces age has left you,
In the lapse of twenty years.
Sister, brother, I am with you,
On your anniversary day,
With you in my thoughts and feelings,
Wafted to your home away.
While the sunshine and the shadow
Of the past you both review,
Pledge again your hearts’ affection,
And begin your lives anew.
Look to Him for strength and guidance,
Who alone your souls can bless,
Ask. His Spirit to be with you,
Trust His love and faithfulness,
O, remember, life is fleeting,
Let your future days be given
To an earnest, ardent seeking,
For a home and rest in Heaven!
Reuben B. Currier and Mary E. Upham
(On their Wedding Day)
It is done, the words are spoken,
Words that bind you heart to heart;
Whom the Lord hath joined together
Neither life nor death can part.
Hope and friendship, joy and sunshine
Hail you both on every side,
They are singing happy greeting
To the bridegroom and the bride.
*H MEMORIES OF EIGHTY YEARS
One in spirit, mind and purpose,
You have loved each other long,
You have gathered souls for Jesus.
By your counsel and your song.
Unto Him we now commend you,
Unto Him whose name is Love;
May the glory of His presence
Rest upon you from above.
Father, Saviour, Holy Spirit
Bless these wedded souls we pray;
Make their future bright and cloudless
As a rosy, summer day.
And when evening shadows gather,
When their harvest work is done,
May they both go home rejoicing
At the setting of the sun.
Sept. 7, 1904
Dedication of the Institution Chapel
Oh, Thou omniscient, omnipresent Lord!
Invisible, eternal God of all!
The vast creation trembles at Thy word,
And at Thy footstool nations prostrate fall.
Thy throne is fixed above the starry frame;
Yet Thou in earthly temples lov’st to dwell; The humble spirit thou wilt not disdain,
The wounded heart Thy balm divine dost heal.
Father, we humbly supplicate Thy grace,
May Thy benignant smile on us be given,
Thy blessing rest upon this sacred place, Thine earthly house, we trust, the gate of heaven.
Here will we listen to Thy holy word;
Light on our path, thus, may its precepts be; Here shall the voice of praise and prayer be heard, —
Ourselves, our all, we dedicate to Thee.
1841
On a Child Kneeling
His little hands were meekly clasped,
And to that cheek so fair,
A ringlet carelessly had strayed,
And lightly lingered there.
Beneath those silken lids that dropped,
Were eyes serenely bright;
An infant kneels, and angels gaze
With rapture at the sight.
Well may they strike their golden harps,
And swell their songs of praise;
An infant kneels in artless strains
Its feeble voice to raise.
Oh, what a lesson! if a child
So innocent must kneel,
Should not our sinful time-seared hearts
A deep contrition feel?
How often from a little child
May we a lesson learn!
Remind us of our wanderings,
And urged to quick return.
The Wish
I ask — but not the glittering pomp —
Of wealth and pageantry;
Nor splendid dome: a rural cot
My domicile shall be.
‘Tis not to mingle with the gay,
The opulent, and proud;
Tis not to court the flattering smile
Of an admiring crowd.
I ask a heart — a faithful heart —
Congenial with mine own,
Whose deep, unchanging love shall burn
For me, and me alone:
A heart in sorrow’s cheerless hour
To soften every care;
To taste with me the sweets of life,
And all its ills to share.
Thus linked by friendship’s golden chain,
Ah, who more blessed than we;
Unruffled as the pearly stream
Our halcyon days would be.
I’ll Think of Thee
(Words and Music)
I’ll think of thee at that soft hour,
When fade the parting hues of day;
And on each grove and woodland bower
The balmy gales of summer play.
When night around her mantle throws,
And stars illume the deep blue sea,
When wearied nature seeks repose,
Oh, then, I’ll dream, I’ll dream of thee.
When from the East the morning breaks;
And night’s dark shadows glide away;
When Nature from her slumber wakes
To hail with joy the opening day.
When sweetly bursting on the ear,
The tuneful warbler’s note of glee,
I’ll fondly fancy thou art near
To touch the light guitar for me.
1842
An Address (Recited while on the tour through New York, 1843)
The deep blue sky, serenely light,
On which your eyes with rapture gaze;
Where stars unveil their mellow bright,
And God His wondrous power displays;
The gushing fount, whose glassy breast,
Reflects the parting hues of day,
Nature in robes of verdure drest,
The opening buds, the flowerets gay;
The lofty hills, the greenwood bowers, — Though fair these rural scenes appear,
On them to gaze must ne’er be ours:
These orbs, alas! they cannot cheer.
But, yet, instruction’s nobler light,
Sheds on our mental eye its ray;
We hail its beams with new delight,
And bid each gloomy thought away.
To us the Lord kind friends has given,
Whose names we ever shall revere,
Recorded in the book of heaven,
Shall their munificence appear.
But, while our sunny moments fly,
Unsullied by a shade of care,
For those, like us bereft, we sigh,
And wish they, too, our joys might share
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEMS tlU
—^ — — — — — — — -
Song of the Greek Exile
Farewell, guitar! this faltering hand
Will touch thy trembling chords no more.
Far from my lovely, native land,
I languish on a distant shore;
From Grecia’s isle forever torn,
A captive exile, now I mourn.
Farewell, guitar! another hand
Will wake thy trembling chords for me,
And in my own dear native land
Recall my favorite melody:
The land where minstrels poured their lays, Where dwelt the bard of by-gone days.
Oh, might I find at last a grave
In thee, my happy, happy isle!
The mournful cypress o’er me wave,
And wild flowers sadly on me smile;
There, bosom friends, and kindred dear
Would to my memory drop a tear.
1843
Reflections on the Closing Year
‘Twill soon be gone — the wailing night wind drear Chants her sad requiem to the closing year: Twill soon be gone — the brilliant starry night In silent eloquence repeats the strain.
‘Twill soon be gone — the placid queen of night O’er its departure sheds her mellow light. Oh, time, what art thou? who thy course may stay? Not ours the past nor future, but today.
Hark! hark! the distant peal of yonder bell, In measured tones the midnight hour doth tell. Old year, thy reign is past; we bid adieu To thee, and usher in the new.
I’ll to my couch, and dream the hours away,
‘Till fair Aurora opes the gates of day:
But ere I go, dear friends, on you I call:
“A happy new year” is my wish to all.
To Rusticus (In answer to the lines “My Heart is Weary”)
Oh, why forgotten wouldst thou sleep
Beneath some lonely tree?
Has this bright world, so beautiful,
No sunny spots for thee?
Thou sayest thy heart is weary, —
Hath sorrow swept its strings?
Its every tone of buried hopes
Some sad remembrance brings?
Go where the gushing fountain
Leaps from the rock-bound hill;
And let its quiet murmurs
Thy heart’s wild throbbing still;
Scorn not the humble daisy,
Nor lily’s drooping form;
For, trust me, thou wilt never find
A rose without a thorn!
August, 1847
Time Chronicled in a Skull
A skull was once placed in my hand and I placed a watch inside it. The thoughts that came to me then were afterwards written out in a poem.
Why should I fear it? Once the pulse of life
Throbbed in these temples, pale and bloodless now.
Here reason sat enthroned, its empire held
O’er infant thought and thought to action grown:
A flashing eye in varying glances told
The secret workings of immortal mind.
The vital spark hath fled, and hope, and love,
And hatred, — all are buried in the dust,
Forgotten, like the cold and senseless clay
That lies before me: such is hunan life.
Mortals, behold and read your destiny 1
Faithful chronometer, which now I place
Within this cavity with faltering hand,
Tell me how swift the passing non.ents fly!
I hear thy voice and tremble as I hear,
For tine and death are blended — awful thought.
Death claims its victim. Time, that once was his,
Bearing him onward with resistless power,
Must in the vast eternity be lost.
Eternity, duration infinite!
m MEMORIES OF EIGHTY YEARS
Ages on ages roll unnumbered there; From star to star the soul enraptured flies, Drinking new beauties, transports ever new, Casting its crown of glory at His feet, Whose word from chaos to existence called A universe; whose hand omnipotent Controls the storms that wake the boundless deep, “And guides the planet in its wild career.” 1848
He Goes Before You
(Matthew xxvii: 7; Middle Clause)
O troubled ones, why thus repine,
And yield to care and sorrow?
Though clouds may veil your sky today,
The sun will shine tomorrow.
Chorus:
He lives again, your Saviour lives;
His banner still is o’er you,
Then trust the words the angel said:
Behold He goes before you!
He goes before to cheer the path
Your weary feet are treading;
And all along, His gentle hand
A feast of love is spreading.
O troubled ones, be not afraid;
Press on with firm endeavor
To meet with joy your risen Lord,
And dwell with Him forever.
An Address to Henry Clay
On the occasion of his visit to the New York Institution for the Blind.
It comes, it swells, it breaks upon the ear;
Millions have caught the spirit-stirring sound.
And we with joy, with transport uncontrolled,
Would in the chorus of our city join:
Thou noblest of the noble, welcome here!
Noble in high born deeds of spotless fame, —
Yes, in behalf of those who o’er us watch,
We bid thee welcome to this lovely spot,
Our peaceful home, where kindred souls are knit
In one sweet bond of friendship unalloyed.
It is not ours thy lineaments to trace,
The intellectual brow, the flashing eye.
Whose glance the language of the soul portrays.
But fancy’s busy hand the picture draws,
And with a smile, the glowing sketch presents
To hearts that with anticipation throb.
How have we longed to meet thee, thou whose voice,
In eloquence resistless, like a spell,
Holds e’en a nation captive to its powers!
Well may Columbia of her son be proud.
Firm as a rock, amid conflicting storms,
Thou by her side hast ever fearless stood,
With truth thy motto, principle thy guide.
And thou canst feel as rich a gem is thine,
As ever graced the loftiest monarch’s brow:
A nation’s honor and a nation’s love.
O’er Ashland veiled in winter’s cheerless night, Ere long will steal the gentle breath of spring; And thou wilt sit among the shades embowered Of ancient trees, whose giant branches wave Around the quiet home thou lovest so dear. The winding streamlet on whose pearly breast The crescent moon reflects her silver light, Will murmur on; and when the blushing morn Calls nature from a soft and dewy sleep The birds will glad thee with their gushing songs, So sweetly caroled to the new-born day. Once more, illustrious statesman, welcome herel Language can do no more, these trembling lips To our emotions utterance cannot give. Yet we would ask, ere thou from us depart, Oh, let thine accents greet each anxious ear. Speak, we entreat thee, but one parting word, That in the secret chambers of the heart May live the memory of its thrilling tones, When he who uttered them is far away. 1848
Influenza
(A play on the names of the Managers)
Now list ye, dear friends, I’ve a story to tell, If I mistake not, ‘twill please you right well. You all recollect what a scene of confusion Once reigned for a week in our good Institution, For a being with manners exceedingly rude On our sanctum sanctorum had dared to intrude;
His horrible grip threw us all in a frenzy, —
He’d a singular name, he was called Influenzy.
Though treated with Clements, yet all would not do,
He fearlessly seized on a Chamberlain, too,
Who struggled in vain, for the wretch held him fast,
And catching his voice cried, “I have you at last.”
Our Board of Directors thought best to convene:
The result of their counsel will shortly be seen;
Our president, Phelps, Mr. Allen, and Moore
Declared such a thing ne’er happened before;
And the best they could do was at once to expel him,
And appoint in due form a committee to tell him;
And as for his principles all must agree
He ought to be ruled by a K-i-n-g, —
But said Mr. Shelden: “My friend, Mr. Jones,
I move that the creature be pelted with stones.”
“No, no,” said the other, who thoughtfully stood,
“For then he might easily fly to a Wood,
Besides, I consider such treatment too harsh,
But, Cased in a Schell, let him sink in a Marsh,
With a Cross -bee around him to torture and try him,
And remember that Beers of all kinds we deny him,
We let him Thurst, on, am I right, Mr. Murray?
Whatever we do, must be done in a hurry:
At times he is in a Brown study, they say;
Now, I would suggest that we take him, to-Day.’
“To- Day, by all means,” Mr. Murray replied.
With that Influenzy stood close by his side,
But just as an arm o’er his shoulder he put,
By Robertson Welch he was bound hand and foot;
Unlike to most captives his dungeon was spacy, His judge, I am told, was remarkable Gracie, His fate, I am sure, I have no wish to deplore it, And I’ve heard since like a martyr he bore it. 1850
The Rover
I am free as the mountain breezes wild,
My sable plumes that wave; And my heart is as gay as the heart of the bird,
And my spirit is bold and brave.
My trusty sword, like a faithful friend,
Hangs glittering at my side;
And I steer my bark with a daring hand
On the breast of the furious tide.
I love to look on the frowning sky,
When the vivid lightnings flash; And the tempest shrieks at the dead of night,
And the rolling thunders crash.
I have stood on the deck of my noble craft,
And watched its shattered sail;
I have seen its mast in pieces dashed,
Hang quivering in the gale.
But think ye my cheeks were pale with dread,
Or my blood grew cold and chill? There was music for me in the mad winds’ mirth,
And my heart beats fearless still.
I have stood in the battle’s foremost ranks,
When the booming shots came fast; And the light grew dim in the warrior’s eye,
And the valiant were breathing their last.
I never quailed ‘neath a tyrant’s glance,
A slave I have scorned to be;
They have sought my life, they have sought in vain,
I am free — I am free — I am free!
1849
The Captive
The deep-toned bell, from Linder’s lofty tower, With awful peal proclaims the midnight hour; And spectres grim, in robes of ghastly white, Come forth to wander through the gloom of night.
They move with noiseless tread, that ghostly train, Low, muttering sounds convulse the trembling frame, The eye revolts in terror from the signt, The blood congeals, the cheek grows deathly white.
That ancient tower for centuries hath stood, The scene of barbarous cruelty and blood: The hapless victim, doomed to torturing pain, Though innocent, for mercy pleads in vain, Within those hated walls her accents never came.
Blind superstition wields its sceptre there, And fiends in human form its tenants are; The mangled wretch with frantic joy they see, And laugh exulting at his agony.
Within a deep and loathesome vault, confined
For years, a captive, hath Alvero pined;
A youth of noble origin is he
In this abode of guilt and misery.
Why is he doomed a wretched life to spend?
Oh, death to him would be a welcome friend;
Pale and distorted are his features now,
And grief sits silent on his lofty brow.
Say what his crime? ask of that tyrant band That with malignant looks around him stand; Fell murderers, hold! ye stern, accursed throng, Hold, or high heaven will yet avenge his wrong.
‘Tis done, ’tis done! I see the quivering dart: The life-blood gushes from Alvero’s heart, A deep convulsive sigh his bosom yields, — Hark! hark! methinks a kindred name he breathes.
“Oh, E valine, far, far from thee I die, Would thou coulds’t hear my last expiring sigh; Would that my head were pillowed on thy breast, How calm, how peaceful, could I sink to rest.
“If those who dwell in yon celestial sphere Forget not those they loved on earth so dear; If mortal’s sorrows they, perchance, may see, My faithful spirit shall thy guardian be.”
A groan — another — he has passed away
To the bright regions of eternal day,
The affrighted raven screams and flaps her wings,
Night’s mournful wind the captive’s requiem sings.
The Presumptuous Mouse
(Written from an actual incident)
Dear friends, receive attentively
A strange account of Mr. C.
With your permission I’ll relate, — Though you may smile at his sad fate, — How while reposing on his bed,
And airy thoughts flit through his head,
A weary mouse house-hunting crept,
Close to the pillow where he slept;
But there not feeling quite at ease,
And wishing much himself to please,
He looked with grave and thoughtful air
On Mr. C’s dishevelled hair.
“Ah, here’s the station I like best,”
Said he, “and here I’ll build my nest.
This scalp conceals a poet’s brain,
So here till morning I’ll remain,
Perhaps the muse will me inspire,
And if she tune her magic lyre,
I’ll to the world proclaim that we,
That mice, like men, may poets be,
Our hero thus descanted long
On love, and poesy and song;
— — mmmm — — — — — — m —
While now and then a gentle squeal
His vocal powers would reveal.
His strain of eloquence it broke,
For Mr. C, perplexed awoke,
And starting up — “I do declare
There’s something scraping in my hair;
A light; a light; what shall I do?”
At this the mouse, alarmed, withdrew;
And had he not, I’m certain, death
Had stopped, ere long, his little breath.
To a Friend
(Cynthia Bullock)
When wilt thou think of me?
When the vesper bell is pealing,
And its distant sounds are stealing
Softly on the listening ear,
Breathing music sweet and clear;
When in prayer on bended knee,
Wilt thou then remember me?
When wilt thou think of me?
When the twilight fades away,
And the bird hath ceased its lay,
And the quiet evening shade
Lingers in the silent glade;
When thy thoughts are wandering freei
Wilt thou then remember me?
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEMS Ml
When wilt thou think of me?
When thy gentle heart is crushed,
And its sweetest tones are hushed;
When upon some faithful breast,
Thou wouldst lull thy grief to rest,
Then in whispers soft to thee
I would say, remember me.
“Hope on, Hope Ever”
“Hope on, hope ever” — Earth is not so drear, Nor life a comfortless and empty dream; The darkest clouds that gather o’er us here, Are not the harbingers we sometimes deem; For lo, how brilliant the returning ray, As one by one their shadows pass away!
“Hope on, hope ever” — Is thy heart bereft Of all that rendered life once dear to thee? Amid the wreck the quenchless spark is left, Whose light, though feeble, shall thy beacon be. Though death’s cold hand some kindred tie may sever, Still let thy motto be, “Hope on, hope ever.”
“Hope on, hope ever” — weary and oppressed, Care’s pallid seal stamped on thy sunken cheek; There is a haven of eternal rest Whose sacred joy no mortal tongue can speak; Look upward in thine hour of dark despair: Hope points to heaven, and drops her anchor there.
A Reverie
Under the boughs of the waving trees,
Wooing the breath from a passing breeze,
Gathering daisies pure and sweet,
Far from the noisy crowded street,
There would I sit through the long, long day,
Dreaming the golden hours away;
Dreaming of pleasures that fancy brings
‘Neath the silken folds of her airy wings,
Till my heart beats quick and I feel the glow
Of friendship’s smile in the long ago.
Down where the ocean billows swell,
And over and over their story tell,
Down where the distant breakers roar,
And I hear their voice on the sandy shore,
There would I be when the sunset hue
Fades in the depths of the waters blue;
There would I roam when the shadows creep
Over the face of the mighty deep,
And the moon looks down from her saintly bower
With a hallowed light on that lone, lone hour.
Sabbath Evening
Lo, the setting sun is stealing
Softly through the clustering vines;
On the spirit tweet peace sealing,
As this Sabbath day declines.
Lovely spot, oh, sacred hour,
Day of all our days the best,
Weakening the tempter’s power,
Pointing to the promised rest.
While we watch thy fading splendor,
Thou adorner of the skies,
May we all our hearts surrender
To the God who bade thee rise.
Our Country
Our country, unrivalled in beauty,
And splendor that cannot be told,
How lovely thy hills and thy woodlands,
Arrayed in the sunlight of gold.
The eagle, proud king of the mountain,
Is soaring majestic and free;
Thy rivers and lakes in their grandeur
Roll on to the arms of the sea.
Our country, the birthplace of freedom,
The land where our forefathers trod,
And sang in the aisles of the forest
Their hymns of thanksgiving to God.
Their bark they had moored in the harbor,
No more on the ocean to roam;
And there in the wilds of New England
They founded a country and home.
Our country, with ardent devotion,
In God may thy children abide;
In him be the strength of the nation,
His laws and His counsel to guide.
Our banner — that time honored banner —
That floats in the ocean’s bright foam,
God keep it unsullied forever,
Our standard, our union, our home.
A Tribute
(To the memory of our dead heroes)
To arms! to arms! We remem
That wild, tumultuous
When our country rang with r i clang
Of swords that were lifted hi..,
For the king of war, on his fiery steed,
Shot flame from his flashing eye.
The eagle screamed as he flapped his wings,
And soared to his rock-girt nest, And the ocean moaned, as he heard the sound
Far, far on his heaving breast.
To arms! to arms! and defend your cause!
In the cannon’s boom was heard;
And the clarion swelled its pealing note,
Till ever)’ soul was stirred; And our gallant brave from the homes they loved
Went forth at their country’s word.
Side by side on the battlefield,
With loyal hearts and true,
Side by side they fought and died
For the old red, white and blue.
And now we stand on the sacred spot,
Where we laid them down to sleep;
And we touch the chords of memory’s harp,
And linger awhile to weep.
With grateful hearts and reverent lips,
We tell of their deeds of fame; And cover them over with fair young flowers
That” their honored name.
Their wo .«., and from year to year
We ha) ir graves anew;
Their work is done, and our banner bright
Unfurled to the breeze we view; And we look with pride on the Stars and Stripes,
That were saved by the Boys in Blue.
What the Old Year Saw
The moon looked down from a cloudless sky,
On the white and crispy snow;
And one by one the hours went by,
While I heard the wild winds blow.
I thought of those who were toiling hard,
Their burden of life to bear;
I thought of the homes that were dark and cold,
And the little ones shivering there;
Then I looked again at the queenly moon,
As she walked in her path of light;
And I prayed from the depths of my inmost soul,
“Lord, pity the poor tonight.”
While thus I mused by myself alone,
Watching the embers glow,
A form stole in; he was bent with age,
And his locks were white as snow.
“You wonder,” he said, and his voice was weak; “You wonder to find me here.
But much have I seen that I fain would tell,
And then I must bid you a long farewell
For I am the old, old year.
Yes, much have I seen of good and ill,
Of pleasure and sorrow, too.
Take heed to my counsel where’er you go,
‘’Be kind to the erring and soothe their woe,
As God has been kind to you.
I saw a youth in an evil hour
Beguiled by the tempting bowl;
And he deeply drank of its baneful dregs,
That burned to his very soul;
And I saw him won by a loving word:
Reclaimed from his reckless ways;
“And only this morning I heard him say
‘To Jesus be all his praise’:
‘I saw a wife by her husband’s side,
And her hand he warmly pressed;
I heard her singing a cradle song,
And hushing her babe to rest.
But the demon entered their peaceful home,
And clouded her fair young brow,
“For he, who had promised her lot to bless,
Had made it a thorny wilderness,
Forgetting his marriage vow.
The demon entered that peaceful home,
And stalked with remorseless tread;
But she bore it all with woman’s trust
Till her last, last hope had fled — Till the child of her love, by an angel borne,
“Went home where no tears are shed.
The father gazed on the pale, sweet face
Of the babe, so still and fair;
In its little hand was an opening bud:
Dear mamma had placed it there.
He stood and gazed on its pale, sweet face,
And his noble nature stirred.
And the man of God from a mission came
“To read from the Holy Word. He read of the tears the Saviour shed O’er the grave where Lazarus slept; A chord was touched in the father’s breast, And he bowed his head and wept. ‘Twas a touching scene, aye, a touching scene, I remembered it many a day, How he knelt him down by his stricken wife, “And asked the goodly man to pray: But still he knelt with a firm resolve And promised then and there By the grace of G d and the pastor’s prayer He never would drink again. I have seen the altars with mourners filled, And they gave their hearts to God: I have seen them look with a shudder, back
“To the path they once had trod.
And many a picture bright I’ve seen
At merry Christmas time;
When the bells rang out, ‘Good will to men,’
With clear and silver chime.
Good will to men through the Saviour’s birth — Oh, precious truth sublime.
And now I have come to my closing hour,
“My task is well nigh done;
And 1880 must soon give place to 1881.
Faster and faster the moments bring
The end of my brief career;
I shall soon be gone, and a happy song
Will welcome the new-born year.
‘Do good, do good, for the Master’s sake*
Is the message I leave to all;
“Be sure you are ready whene’er he comes,
To answer the Master’s call.”
And the old year passed from my wondering eyes
Through the veil of light serene;
And a record he bore to eternity’s shore
Of all that he had heard and seen.
For the Dedication of a Church
Eternal God of ages,
And source of boundless love,
We praise Thee for Thy mercies,
That crown us from above.
Our pleasant task completed
With joyful eyes we see;
And now our earthly temple
We consecrate to Thee.
Accept our cheerful offering,
And may this holy day,
Be one whose tender memory
Will never fade away.
O, fill us with Thy Spirit,
And may our faith behold
The glory-cloud descending,
And resting, as of old.
Receive our cheerful offering
From loyal hearts and true,
Who labored, prayed and trusted,
Although in number few.
Thy promise gave us courage;
And now with joy we see
Our work begun, continued,
And ended, Lord, in Thee.
To Our Mother on Her Eighty-ninth Birthday
Tender thoughts their spell are weaving,
Hallowed memories round us twine,
‘Tis the birthday of our mother,
And her years are eighty-nine;
Years that fraught with many changes
Came and went as flies a dream,
Came and went as speeds an arrow,
Or a meteor’s flashing beam.
But her eye retains a lustre,
And her face a genial glow,
That illumines every feature,
With the smile of long ago;
And we fancy that the autumn
Of her life is waning now,
And forget the winter’s snowflakes,
Resting gently on her brow.
Mother’s birthday, and her children
Three in number, all are here,
From the sunny past recalling
Words of love we still revere.
Four grandchildren grace our circle,
Breathing wishes kind and true,
Mother’s joy to make still brighter,
See! her great-grandchildren, too.
But our hearts must pause a moment
O’er the missing ones to mourn:
Where are William, Lee and Byron,
Will those dear ones ne’er return?
Will our mother’s birthday never
Bring them back to us again?
We shall listen for their footsteps,
We shall watch for them in vain;
But the voice of Him who suffered,
And hath risen from the tomb,
Gives us comfort in our sorrow,
Whispers hope beyond the gloom.
O, the bliss of sweet reunion,
When the last wild storm is o’er,
When our souls have braved the tempest,
And our bark has readied the shore.
Mother’s birthday’. God reward her
For her gentle, patient care,
May He light the path before her
Is the burden of our prayer;
And may all who now are gathered
On this happy eve so bright,
Meet at last beyond the river,
Where they never say, “Good night!”
Our Beautiful Baby Clare
(Dedicated to the memory of my little niece, Clare Hope, daughter of Mr. Albert E. and Mrs. Clara O. Morris, who passed away July 1, 1891.)
Silently came the angel,
A white-robed angel fair,
And carried away our darling,
Our beautiful Baby Clare,
Carried her home to the song-land
To dwell in its blissful bowers,
And play with the infant cherubs,
Who gather its fadeless flowers.
Silently came the angel,
And whispered in accents clear,
“I bring you a balm of comfort
Your sorrowing hearts to cheer;
God spareth the wife and mother
In answer to earnest prayer,
But taketh where she may follow
Her beautiful Baby Clare.”
We know not the unseen future,
Tis wisely from us concealed,
We know not the way before us,
But this hath our Lord revealed:
Through clouds that may seem the darkest
There shineth a radiance bright,
That maketh each tear a jewel
To sparkle in God’s own light.
Oh, let not our hearts be troubled,
But trust our Redeemer’s love,
Who kindly now is preparing
A mansion for us above;
Not here is our home, but yonder,
Not here is our rest, but there,
Where Jesus our Lord hath beckoned
Our beautiful Babv Clare.
Though Papa will miss his darling,
So gentle and pure and sweet,
And “Dan-ma” will hear no longer
The tread of her tiny feet,
Oh, think of the blest reunion,
No parting nor pain is there,
But safe in the arms of Jesus
Is our beautiful Baby Clare.
A Tribute
(To the Memory of Col. Samuel B. Sumner)
It cannot be, and yet the low sad moan
Of midnight winds with melancholy tone
A requiem chant, that from his tomb they here;
Weep gentle muse for Sumner is no more.
Yet he doth live, no heart so kind as he,
So brave and noble can forgotten be.
Immortal genius and heroic fame,
With sparkling jewels, crown our poet’s name:
True to the land of his ancestral birth,
He sang her praise in strains of peerless worth;
Held up her flag in battle’s dread affray,
Through many a weary march and toil-worn day;
And on the field, as oft his comrades tell,
He did his duty, and he did it well.
His end was calm as evening’s sunset glow,
How like to hers, who three short years ago
Looked in his face, then closed her tranquil eye,
And in that look bade those she loved, “goodbye.” Perchance ’twas she who came on pinions bright Or floating downward on a beam of light, Drew him away to that sweet realm above, Life’s Great Beyond, its paradise of love. O, hearts bereaved, there is a morn of peace, When every wave and every storm shall cease; A world of joy without one throb of pain, A home of bliss where loved ones meet again, O kindred spirit, rest; thy work is o’er, Thy lips are mute, thy harp resounds no more* Yet will its echoes come at hush of night, When silver stars unveil their pensive light, And we shall hope in heaven with thee to dwell, Where they who meet shall never say farewell. 1891
In Eden’s Vale of Flowers
(Affectionately dedicated to my nephew and niece Mr. and Mrs. William Tait, on the death of their infant son, Morris William Tait, August, 1893.)
I know you are sad and lonely,
Through tears I hear you say:
“From Papa, Mamma and Mary
Our boy has gone away:
Our boy like the ivy clinging
Around each breaking heart,
Our dear little baby, Morris,
‘Tis hard from him to part.”
Oh, yes, but your precious darling
In yonder home of rest,
Is “safe in the arms of Jesus,”
“Safe on His gentle breast”;
And, oh, could the vail be lifted,
That hides your babe so fair,
How soon you would lose forever
The cross that now you bear!
I know of a beautiful garden,
Where He, our Lord and King,
Came down with the blush of the morning
The dew of love to bring;
And, seeing a pure white lily,
Too frail for earthly bowers,
He carried it in His bosom
To Eden’s vale of flowers.
Oh, think what a radiant picture
What joy its light portrays,
Our Saviour is tender hearted,
And kind in all His ways;
Though sometimes the paths before us,
With clouds are dark and dim,
Tis only that He may draw us
In closer bonds to Him.
Not so far is the silent river,
Not far is the golden shore,
Not long till we shall gather,
Where parting comes no more;
There music from harps and voices,
Rolls on in tuneful strain,
Where Papa, Mamma and Mary
Will clasp their boy again.
A Birthday Tribute
Unselfish, noble, true and constant friend, Take thou my greeting on thy birthday morn, That breaks resplendent from the orient sky, With hope and promise of a golden year, Sweet as the echo of the crystal bells, That sing responsive to the angels’ song; I hear the music of the sacred nine, For they would usher in this welcome hour, And waft this tribute on the vernal breeze. One little sparkling gem today I bring, A gem whose lustre will forever shine, I found it in an urn by friendship sealed, And closely guarded by her watchful eye; Her gift and mine to crown thy natal morn; Accept it then, and may it breathe for thee In words I would not have the power to speak What thou hast been and what thou art to me.
A Reverie
The winds a carol murmur, soft and low, While silver stars, that gem the arch of nighty In answering tones, repeat the choral strain: Sleep on, O minstrel, calm be thy repose,
Pure as thy spirit, guileless as thy heart; May golden dreams of past and future years, Of deeds accomplished, laurels nobly won, Beguile thy slumber with their magic power, And bear thee onward to the classic vales, Where thou in thought hast wandered o’er and o’er, Hast laved thy brow in sweet Arcadian springs, And caught the music of Apollo’s lyre: Sleep on, O minstrel, angels guard thy rest, Till in her chariot drawn by flaming steeds, Comes the fair goddess of the blushing morn, And in her beauty smiling bids thee wake. 1903
Night and Morning
Lo, the vesper hour hath flown,
Voices of the dewy night
Hold me captive with delight
To their mystic tone.
Strangely wild, yet passing sweet,
Falls their music on my ear,
While a fountain soft and clear
Murmurs at my feet.
Ah, too soon the moments fly,
Now the bird his nest forsakes
And the rosy morning breaks
From the Orient sky.
On the Dedication of a Church Organ Thou in whose chords the soul of music dwells, Tuned by a master hand, awake, awake, And in these temple walls where thou dost stand, Peal forth thy first glad song of joyful praise To Him the great Creator of us all, The Mighty Lord, the Universal King.
Thou art our offering, unto Him alone We dedicate thee on this Sabbath day, And while we listen to thy thrilling tones, Now soft, now swelling with ecstatic bliss, Oh, may our voices blend with one accord, And faith directed may our spirits rise; Beyond the clouds and look within the vail.
Accept, O gracious Lord, the gift we bring, Receive the tribute of our grateful love, And when, as now, we gather in Thy name, Behold this organ for Thy worship made; Behold the singers, and their song inspire. Here, may the smile of gentle peace abide, And here the brightness of Thy glory shine.
A Pleasant Reminiscence
(School for the Blind .Wethersfield Ave., Hartford, Conn.) There’s a day that comes from the sunny past, Where it lives in friendship’s bowers; And it whispers soft of a hallowed scene In the early spring when the hills were green And we met for a few brief hours.
‘Tis a day long past, but remembered yet
When I stood in your home so dear;
I can see you all as I saw you then,
I can feel the clasp of each hand again
And your welcome words I hear.
0 friends beloved, ’tis a golden chain
That binds us heart to heart,
‘Twas woven in light where angels sing
And the roses bloom in eternal spring,
And its links no power can part.
And oft as I muse and my brow is fanned
By a breath from the passing gales,
Though weary my spirit at times may be,
How restful the pleasure that flows to me.
While reading your “Talks and Tales.”
To Brother and Sister Cobham
The noble deed you both have done,
O precious friends of mine,
A star has added to your crown,
That on your brow will shine.
You did it in the Master’s name,
And yet you little knew
That angel eyes were looking down
From yonder arch of blue.
Three youthful workers for the Lord
Were brought at your behest,
And in your sunlit home they found
The bliss of tranquil rest..
You gave them kindly words of cheer,
And strewed their path with flowers;
They heard the carol of the birds
In nature’s rural bowers.
They bounded o’er the rock-girt hills
And paused awhile to see,
The Allegheny, flowing on,
Majestic, grand and free;
Then turning back they sought again,
Your dwelling in the grove,
And to the light guitar they sang
Glad songs of grateful love.
And when we gathered round your board,
With tempting viands blest,
You did not leave the driver out,
But called him with the rest;
He took his place, the moments passed
In social converse sweet;
We ate and drank, and praised the Lord
For such a dear retreat.
But then the evening time drew near,
We saw the shades descend,
And with a sigh of fond regret,
We parted, friend with friend;
The light guitar, the choral song.
Will in our memory dwell,
Till we, in glory, clasp our hands,
No more to say farewell.
O precious friends, your noble deeds
Will never, never die,
Behold and read in gilded lines
Their message in the sky.
The Lord is with you, fear ye not,
Though pilgrims here ye roam,
He’ll bring you safe where those you love
Will sing your Welcome Home.
Chautauquan Greeting (Dedicated to the Round Table, August 10, 1906)
In these classic wilds of beauty,
In our summer land so dear,
Crowned with blessings rich and boundless
We have gathered year by year.
From the village and the hamlet,
From the city’s crowded streets,
In our summer home so tranquil,
We are spared again to meet.
Hail, Chautauquan sons and daughters,
Swell the chorus; let it break
O’er the forest and the mountain,
O’er the waves of Tully Lake.
Like Minerva, rich in wisdom,
Dropping words like gentle dew,
Still our President is with us,
And her magic wand we view.
While our noble, kind director,
Warmly as in years before,
Gives to each a cordial welcome
To Assembly Park once more.
Silver lake and giant forest
Many hours like this recall,
While they sing with tuneful measure:
Happy greetings one and all!
Are we 11 at our Round Table?
All who gathered years ago?
No, some tender links are broken,
And our tears awhile must flow.
Far beyond the silent river,
Some have laid their burdens down;
They have heard the Saviour’s welcome,
And received their promised crown.
Now they bid us weep no longer,
But enjoy the pleasant hours,
Till by angels we are wafted
To their paradise of flowers.
Hail, Chautauquan sons and daughters,
Nature joins our song of love;
Happy greeting, happy greeting,
To our temple in the grove.
Good-night! Good-night!
On the last night of the old year, nineteen hundred and five, I attended the watch-night services at the First Methodist Episcopal Church in Bridgeport. I had previously prepared a poem entitled “The Message of the Old Year” which I recited there, and with this I, too, will bid you all “good-night.”
List to the clanging bells of time,
Tolling, tolling a low, sad chime,
A requiem chant o’er the grand Old Year,
Hark! he is speaking, and bids us hear:
“Friends, I am dying, my hours are few,
This is the message I leave for you, — Bought with a price, ye are not your own,
Live for the Master and Him alone.
“Gather the sheep from the mountains cold,
Gather them into the Shepherd’s fold,
Work for His cause till your work is done,
Stand by the cross till your crown is won.
“Epworth League, there are hosts above
Watching your labor of zeal and love,
Faithful abide till your days are past,
Then what a joy will be yours at last.’
“I shall be gone ere the new-born year Comes in its beauty the world to cheer: Once I was young, and my flowers were bright, — Think of me kindly, Good-night 1 Good-night I”