For the golden locks of Eva Let the sunny south-land give her Flowery pillow of repose, Orange-bloom and budding rose.
In the better home of Eva Let the shining ones receive her, With the welcome-voiced psalm, Harp of gold and waving palm,
All is light and peace with Eva; There the darkness cometh never; Tears are wiped, and fetters fall.
And the Lord is all in all.
Weep no more for happy Eva, Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her; Care and pain and weariness Lost in love so measureless.
Gentle Eva, loving Eva, Child confessor, true believer, Listener at the Master's knee, "Suffer such to come to me."
Oh, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, Lighting all the solemn river, And the blessings of the poor Wafting to the heavenly shore!
1852
A LAY OF OLD TIME.
Written for the Essex County Agricultural Fair, and sung at the banquet at Newburyport, October 2, 1856.
One morning of the first sad Fall, Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall-- But on the outer side.
She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit For the chaste garb of old; He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit For Eden's drupes of gold.
Behind them, smiling in the morn, Their forfeit garden lay, Before them, wild with rock and thorn, The desert stretched away.
They heard the air above them fanned, A light step on the sward, And lo! they saw before them stand The angel of the Lord!
"Arise," he said, "why look behind, When hope is all before, And patient hand and willing mind, Your loss may yet restore?
"I leave with you a spell whose power Can make the desert glad, And call around you fruit and flower As fair as Eden had.
"I clothe your hands with power to lift The curse from off your soil; Your very doom shall seem a gift, Your loss a gain through Toil.
"Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, To labor as to play."
White glimmering over Eden's trees The angel passed away.
The pilgrims of the world went forth Obedient to the word, And found where'er they tilled the earth A garden of the Lord!
The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit And blushed with plum and pear, And seeded grass and trodden root Grew sweet beneath their care.
We share our primal parents' fate, And, in our turn and day, Look back on Eden's sworded gate As sad and lost as they.
But still for us his native skies The pitying Angel leaves, And leads through Toil to Paradise New Adams and new Eves!
A SONG OF HARVEST
For the Agricultural and Horticultural Exhibition at Amesbury and Salisbury, September 28, 1858.
This day, two hundred years ago, The wild grape by the river's side, And tasteless groundnut trailing low, The table of the woods supplied.
Unknown the apple's red and gold, The blushing tint of peach and pear; The mirror of the Powow told No tale of orchards ripe and rare.
Wild as the fruits he scorned to till, These vales the idle Indian trod; Nor knew the glad, creative skill, The joy of him who toils with God.
O Painter of the fruits and flowers!
We thank Thee for thy wise design Whereby these human hands of ours In Nature's garden work with Thine.
And thanks that from our daily need The joy of simple faith is born; That he who smites the summer weed, May trust Thee for the autumn corn.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest; And God and man shall own his worth Who toils to leave as his bequest An added beauty to the earth.
And, soon or late, to all that sow, The time of harvest shall be given; The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow, If not on earth, at last in heaven.
KENOZA LAKE.
This beautiful lake in East Haverhill was the "Great Pond" the writer's boyhood. In 1859 a movement was made for improving its shores as a public park. At the opening of the park, August 31, 1859, the poem which gave it the name of Kenoza (in Indian language signifying Pickerel) was read.
As Adam did in Paradise, To-day the primal right we claim Fair mirror of the woods and skies, We give to thee a name.
Lake of the pickerel!--let no more The echoes answer back, "Great Pond,"
But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore And watching hills beyond,
Let Indian ghosts, if such there be Who ply unseen their shadowy lines, Call back the ancient name to thee, As with the voice of pines.
The shores we trod as barefoot boys, The nutted woods we wandered through, To friendship, love, and social joys We consecrate anew.
Here shall the tender song be sung, And memory's dirges soft and low, And wit shall sparkle on the tongue, And mirth shall overflow,
Harmless as summer lightning plays From a low, hidden cloud by night, A light to set the hills ablaze, But not a bolt to smite.
In sunny South and prairied West Are exiled hearts remembering still, As bees their hive, as birds their nest, The homes of Haverhill.
They join us in our rites to-day; And, listening, we may hear, erelong, From inland lake and ocean bay, The echoes of our song.
Kenoza! o'er no sweeter lake Shall morning break or noon-cloud sail,-- No fairer face than thine shall take The sunset's golden veil.