How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town!
Ring, O bells!
Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime.
Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time!
Let us kneel God's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground.
Lord, forgive us! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound!
For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake He has spoken; He has smitten with His thunder The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken.
Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea, He has cast the mighty down; Horse and rider sink and drown; "He hath triumphed gloriously!"
Did we dare, In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done?
When was ever His right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun?
How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise!
Blotted out All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin!
It is done!
In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth.
It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth!
Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad!
With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God!
1865.
HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF EMANCIPATION AT NEWBURYPORT.
NOT unto us who did but seek The word that burned within to speak, Not unto us this day belong The triumph and exultant song.
Upon us fell in early youth The burden of unwelcome truth, And left us, weak and frail and few, The censor's painful work to do.
Thenceforth our life a fight became, The air we breathed was hot with blame; For not with gauged and softened tone We made the bondman's cause our own.
We bore, as Freedom's hope forlorn, The private hate, the public scorn; Yet held through all the paths we trod Our faith in man and trust in God.
We prayed and hoped; but still, with awe, The coming of the sword we saw; We heard the nearing steps of doom, We saw the shade of things to come.
In grief which they alone can feel Who from a mother's wrong appeal, With blended lines of fear and hope We cast our country's horoscope.
For still within her house of life We marked the lurid sign of strife, And, poisoning and imbittering all, We saw the star of Wormwood fall.
Deep as our love for her became Our hate of all that wrought her shame, And if, thereby, with tongue and pen We erred,--we were but mortal men.
We hoped for peace; our eyes survey The blood-red dawn of Freedom's day We prayed for love to loose the chain; 'T is shorn by battle's axe in twain!
Nor skill nor strength nor zeal of ours Has mined and heaved the hostile towers; Not by our hands is turned the key That sets the sighing captives free.
A redder sea than Egypt's wave Is piled and parted for the slave; A darker cloud moves on in light; A fiercer fire is guide by night.
The praise, O Lord! is Thine alone, In Thy own way Thy work is done!
Our poor gifts at Thy feet we cast, To whom be glory, first and last!
1865.
AFTER THE WAR.
THE PEACE AUTUMN.
Written for the Fssex County Agricultural Festival, 1865.
THANK God for rest, where none molest, And none can make afraid; For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest Beneath the homestead shade!
Bring pike and gun, the sword's red scourge, The negro's broken chains, And beat them at the blacksmith's forge To ploughshares for our plains.
Alike henceforth our hills of snow, And vales where cotton flowers; All streams that flow, all winds that blow, Are Freedom's motive-powers.
Henceforth to Labor's chivalry Be knightly honors paid; For nobler than the sword's shall be The sickle's accolade.
Build up an altar to the Lord, O grateful hearts of ours And shape it of the greenest sward That ever drank the showers.
Lay all the bloom of gardens there, And there the orchard fruits; Bring golden grain from sun and air, From earth her goodly roots.
There let our banners droop and flow, The stars uprise and fall; Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow, Let sighing breezes call.
Their names let hands of horn and tan And rough-shod feet applaud, Who died to make the slave a man, And link with toil reward.
There let the common heart keep time To such an anthem sung As never swelled on poet's rhyme, Or thrilled on singer's tongue.
Song of our burden and relief, Of peace and long annoy; The passion of our mighty grief And our exceeding joy!
A song of praise to Him who filled The harvests sown in tears, And gave each field a double yield To feed our battle-years.
A song of faith that trusts the end To match the good begun, Nor doubts the power of Love to blend The hearts of men as one!