Nothing fails of its end. Out of sight sinks the stone, In the deep sea of time, but the circles sweep on, Till the low-rippled murmurs along the shores run, And the dark and dead waters leap glad in the sun.
Meanwhile shall we learn, in our ease, to forget To the martyrs of Truth and of Freedom our debt?-- Hide their words out of sight, like the garb that they wore, And for Barclay's Apology offer one more?
Shall we fawn round the priestcraft that glutted the shears, And festooned the stocks with our grandfathers' ears?
Talk of Woolman's unsoundness? count Penn heterodox?
And take Cotton Mather in place of George Fox?
Make our preachers war-chaplains? quote Scripture to take The hunted slave back, for Onesimus' sake?
Go to burning church-candles, and chanting in choir, And on the old meeting-house stick up a spire?
No! the old paths we'll keep until better are shown, Credit good where we find it, abroad or our own; And while "Lo here" and "Lo there" the multitude call, Be true to ourselves, and do justice to all.
The good round about us we need not refuse, Nor talk of our Zion as if we were Jews; But why shirk the badge which our fathers have worn, Or beg the world's pardon for having been born?
We need not pray over the Pharisee's prayer, Nor claim that our wisdom is Benjamin's share; Truth to us and to others is equal and one Shall we bottle the free air, or hoard up the sun?
Well know we our birthright may serve but to show How the meanest of weeds in the richest soil grow; But we need not disparage the good which we hold; Though the vessels be earthen, the treasure is gold!
Enough and too much of the sect and the name.
What matters our label, so truth be our aim?
The creed may be wrong, but the life may be true, And hearts beat the same under drab coats or blue.
So the man be a man, let him worship, at will, In Jerusalem's courts, or on Gerizim's hill.
When she makes up her jewels, what cares yon good town For the Baptist of Wayland, the Quaker of Brown?
And this green, favored island, so fresh and seablown, When she counts up the worthies her annals have known, Never waits for the pitiful gaugers of sect To measure her love, and mete out her respect.
Three shades at this moment seem walking her strand, Each with head halo-crowned, and with palms in his hand,-- Wise Berkeley, grave Hopkins, and, smiling serene On prelate and puritan, Channing is seen.
One holy name bearing, no longer they need Credentials of party, and pass-words of creed The new song they sing hath a threefold accord, And they own one baptism, one faith, and one Lord!
But the golden sands run out: occasions like these Glide swift into shadow, like sails on the seas While we sport with the mosses and pebbles ashore, They lessen and fade, and we see them no more.
Forgive me, dear friends, if my vagrant thoughts seem Like a school-boy's who idles and plays with his theme.
Forgive the light measure whose changes display The sunshine and rain of our brief April day.
There are moments in life when the lip and the eye Try the question of whether to smile or to cry; And scenes and reunions that prompt like our own The tender in feeling, the playful in tone.
I, who never sat down with the boys and the girls At the feet of your Slocums, and Cartlands, and Earles,-- By courtesy only permitted to lay On your festival's altar my poor gift, to-day,--
I would joy in your joy: let me have a friend's part In the warmth of your welcome of hand and of heart,-- On your play-ground of boyhood unbend the brow's care, And shift the old burdens our shoulders must bear.
Long live the good School! giving out year by year Recruits to true manhood and womanhood dear Brave boys, modest maidens, in beauty sent forth, The living epistles and proof of its worth!
In and out let the young life as steadily flow As in broad Narragansett the tides come and go; And its sons and its daughters in prairie and town Remember its honor, and guard its renown.
Not vainly the gift of its founder was made; Not prayerless the stones of its corner were laid The blessing of Him whom in secret they sought Has owned the good work which the fathers have wrought.
To Him be the glory forever! We bear To the Lord of the Harvest our wheat with the tare.
What we lack in our work may He find in our will, And winnow in mercy our good from the ill!
OUR RIVER.
FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT "THE LAURELS" ON THE MERRIMAC.
Jean Pierre Brissot, the famous leader of the Girondist party in the French Revolution, when a young man travelled extensively in the United States. He visited the valley of the Merrimac, and speaks in terms of admiration of the view from Moulton's hill opposite Amesbury. The "Laurel Party" so called, as composed of ladies and gentlemen in the lower valley of the Merrimac, and invited friends and guests in other sections of the country. Its thoroughly enjoyable annual festivals were held in the early summer on the pine-shaded, laurel-blossomed slopes of the Newbury side of the river opposite Pleasant Valley in Amesbury. The several poems called out by these gatherings are here printed in sequence.
Once more on yonder laurelled height The summer flowers have budded; Once more with summer's golden light The vales of home are flooded; And once more, by the grace of Him Of every good the Giver, We sing upon its wooded rim The praises of our river,
Its pines above, its waves below, The west-wind down it blowing, As fair as when the young Brissot Beheld it seaward flowing,-- And bore its memory o'er the deep, To soothe a martyr's sadness, And fresco, hi his troubled sleep, His prison-walls with gladness.
We know the world is rich with streams Renowned in song and story, Whose music murmurs through our dreams Of human love and glory We know that Arno's banks are fair, And Rhine has castled shadows, And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr Go singing down their meadows.
But while, unpictured and unsung By painter or by poet, Our river waits the tuneful tongue And cunning hand to show it,-- We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine Awakes to our caressing.
No fickle sun-god holds the flocks That graze its shores in keeping; No icy kiss of Dian mocks The youth beside it sleeping Our Christian river loveth most The beautiful and human; The heathen streams of Naiads boast, But ours of man and woman.
The miner in his cabin hears The ripple we are hearing; It whispers soft to homesick ears Around the settler's clearing In Sacramento's vales of corn, Or Santee's bloom of cotton, Our river by its valley-born Was never yet forgotten.
The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills The summer air with clangor; The war-storm shakes the solid hills Beneath its tread of anger; Young eyes that last year smiled in ours Now point the rifle's barrel, And hands then stained with fruits and flowers Bear redder stains of quarrel.
But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on, And rivers still keep flowing, The dear God still his rain and sun On good and ill bestowing.
His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!"
His flowers are prophesying That all we dread of change or fate His live is underlying.
And thou, O Mountain-born!--no more We ask the wise Allotter Than for the firmness of thy shore, The calmness of thy water, The cheerful lights that overlay, Thy rugged slopes with beauty, To match our spirits to our day And make a joy of duty.
1861.
REVISITED.
Read at "The Laurels," on the Merrimac, 6th month, 1865.
The roll of drums and the bugle's wailing Vex the air of our vales-no more; The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning, The share is the sword the soldier wore!
Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river, Under thy banks of laurel bloom; Softly and sweet, as the hour beseemeth, Sing us the songs of peace and home.
Let all the tenderer voices of nature Temper the triumph and chasten mirth, Full of the infinite love and pity For fallen martyr and darkened hearth.
But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes, And the oil of joy for mourning long, Let thy hills give thanks, and all thy waters Break into jubilant waves of song!