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What though in some unmoistened vale The summer leaf grow brown and sere, Say, shall our star of promise fail That circles half the rolling sphere, From beaches salt with bitter spray, O'er prairies green with softest rain, And ridges bright with evening's ray, To rocks that shade the stormless main?
If by our slender-threaded streams The blade and leaf and blossom die, If, drained by noontide's parching beams, The milky veins of Nature dry, See, with her swelling bosom bare, Yon wild-eyed Sister in the West,-- The ring of Empire round her hair, The Indian's wampum on her breast! We saw the August sun descend, Day after day, with blood-red stain, And the blue mountains dimly blend With smoke-wreaths from the burning plain; Beneath the hot Sirocco's wings We sat and told the withering hours, Till Heaven unsealed its hoarded springs, And bade them leap in flashing showers.
Yet in our Ishmael's thirst we knew The mercy of the Sovereign hand Would pour the fountain's quickening dew To feed some harvest of the land.
No flaming swords of wrath surround Our second Garden of the Blest; It spreads beyond its rocky bound, It climbs Nevada's glittering crest.
God keep the tempter from its gate! God shield the children, lest they fall From their stern fathers' free estate,-- Till Ocean is its only wall! SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22, 1855 NEW ENGLAND, we love thee; no time can erase From the hearts of thy children the smile on thy face.
'T is the mother's fond look of affection and pride, As she gives her fair son to the arms of his bride.
His bride may be fresher in beauty's young flower; She may blaze in the jewels she brings with her dower.
But passion must chill in Time's pitiless blast; The one that first loved us will love to the last.
You have left the dear land of the lake and the hill, But its winds and its waters will talk with you still.
"Forget not," they whisper, "your love is our debt," And echo breathes softly, "We never forget." The banquet's gay splendors are gleaming around, But your hearts have flown back o'er the waves of the Sound; They have found the brown home where their pulses were born; They are throbbing their way through the trees and the corn.
There are roofs you remember,--their glory is fled; There are mounds in the churchyard,--one sigh for the dead.
There are wrecks, there are ruins, all scattered around; But Earth has no spot like that corner of ground.
Come, let us be cheerful,--remember last night, How they cheered us, and--never mind--meant it all right; To-night, we harm nothing,--we love in the lump; Here's a bumper to Maine, in the juice of the pump! Here 's to all the good people, wherever they be, Who have grown in the shade of the liberty-tree; We all love its leaves, and its blossoms and fruit, But pray have a care of the fence round its root.
We should like to talk big; it's a kind of a right, When the tongue has got loose and the waistband grown tight; But, as pretty Miss Prudence remarked to her beau, On its own heap of compost no biddy should crow.
Enough! There are gentlemen waiting to talk, Whose words are to mine as the flower to the stalk.
Stand by your old mother whatever befall; God bless all her children! Good night to you all! FAREWELL TO J.R.

LOWELL FAREWELL, for the bark has her breast to the tide, And the rough arms of Ocean are stretched for his bride; The winds from the mountain stream over the bay; One clasp of the hand, then away and away! I see the tall mast as it rocks by the shore; The sun is declining, I see it once more; To-day like the blade in a thick-waving field, To-morrow the spike on a Highlander's shield.
Alone, while the cloud pours its treacherous breath, With the blue lips all round her whose kisses are death; Ah, think not the breeze that is urging her sail Has left her unaided to strive with the gale.
There are hopes that play round her, like fires on the mast, That will light the dark hour till its danger has past; There are prayers that will plead with the storm when it raves, And whisper "Be still!" to the turbulent waves.
Nay, think not that Friendship has called us in vain To join the fair ring ere we break it again; There is strength in its circle,--you lose the bright star, But its sisters still chain it, though shining afar.
I give you one health in the juice of the vine, The blood of the vineyard shall mingle with mine; Thus, thus let us drain the last dew-drops of gold, As we empty our hearts of the blessings they hold.
April 29, 1855.
FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB THE mountains glitter in the snow A thousand leagues asunder; Yet here, amid the banquet's glow, I hear their voice of thunder; Each giant's ice-bound goblet clinks; A flowing stream is summoned; Wachusett to Ben Nevis drinks; Monadnock to Ben Lomond! Though years have clipped the eagle's plume That crowned the chieftain's bonnet, The sun still sees the heather bloom, The silver mists lie on it; With tartan kilt and philibeg, What stride was ever bolder Than his who showed the naked leg Beneath the plaided shoulder?
The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills, That heard the bugles blowing When down their sides the crimson rills With mingled blood were flowing; The hunts where gallant hearts were game, The slashing on the border, The raid that swooped with sword and flame, Give place to "law and order." Not while the rocking steeples reel With midnight tocsins ringing, Not while the crashing war-notes peal, God sets his poets singing; The bird is silent in the night, Or shrieks a cry of warning While fluttering round the beacon-light,-- But hear him greet the morning! The lark of Scotia's morning sky! Whose voice may sing his praises?
With Heaven's own sunlight in his eye, He walked among the daisies, Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong He soared to fields of glory; But left his land her sweetest song And earth her saddest story.
'T is not the forts the builder piles That chain the earth together; The wedded crowns, the sister isles, Would laugh at such a tether; The kindling thought, the throbbing words, That set the pulses beating, Are stronger than the myriad swords Of mighty armies meeting.
Thus while within the banquet glows, Without, the wild winds whistle, We drink a triple health,--the Rose, The Shamrock, and the Thistle Their blended hues shall never fade Till War has hushed his cannon,-- Close-twined as ocean-currents braid The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon! ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION OF THE MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, FEBRUARY 22, 1856 WELCOME to the day returning, Dearer still as ages flow, While the torch of Faith is burning, Long as Freedom's altars glow! See the hero whom it gave us Slumbering on a mother's breast; For the arm he stretched to save us, Be its morn forever blest! Hear the tale of youthful glory, While of Britain's rescued band Friend and foe repeat the story, Spread his fame o'er sea and land, Where the red cross, proudly streaming, Flaps above the frigate's deck, Where the golden lilies, gleaming, Star the watch-towers of Quebec.
Look! The shadow on the dial Marks the hour of deadlier strife; Days of terror, years of trial, Scourge a nation into life.
Lo, the youth, become her leader All her baffled tyrants yield; Through his arm the Lord hath freed her; Crown him on the tented field! Vain is Empire's mad temptation Not for him an earthly crown He whose sword hath freed a nation Strikes the offered sceptre down.
See the throneless Conqueror seated, Ruler by a people's choice; See the Patriot's task completed; Hear the Father's dying voice! "By the name that you inherit, By the sufferings you recall, Cherish the fraternal spirit; Love your country first of all! Listen not to idle questions If its bands maybe untied; Doubt the patriot whose suggestions Strive a nation to divide!" Father! We, whose ears have tingled With the discord-notes of shame,-- We, whose sires their blood have mingled In the battle's thunder-flame,-- Gathering, while this holy morning Lights the land from sea to sea, Hear thy counsel, heed thy warning; Trust us, while we honor thee! BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER JANUARY 18, 1856 WHEN life hath run its largest round Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, How brief a storied page is found To compass all its outward show! The world-tried sailor tires and droops; His flag is rent, his keel forgot; His farthest voyages seem but loops That float from life's entangled knot.
But when within the narrow space Some larger soul hath lived and wrought, Whose sight was open to embrace The boundless realms of deed and thought,-- When, stricken by the freezing blast, A nation's living pillars fall, How rich the storied page, how vast, A word, a whisper, can recall! No medal lifts its fretted face, Nor speaking marble cheats your eye, Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, A living image passes by: A roof beneath the mountain pines; The cloisters of a hill-girt plain; The front of life's embattled lines; A mound beside the heaving main.
These are the scenes: a boy appears; Set life's round dial in the sun, Count the swift arc of seventy years, His frame is dust; his task is done.
Yet pause upon the noontide hour, Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power, And look upon the mighty shade.
No gloom that stately shape can hide, No change uncrown its brow; behold I Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed, Earth has no double from its mould.
Ere from the fields by valor won The battle-smoke had rolled away, And bared the blood-red setting sun, His eyes were opened on the day.
His land was but a shelving strip Black with the strife that made it free He lived to see its banners dip Their fringes in the Western sea.
The boundless prairies learned his name, His words the mountain echoes knew, The Northern breezes swept his fame From icy lake to warm bayou.
In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride, And laid them at his Master's feet.
His rest is by the storm-swept waves Whom life's wild tempests roughly trie Whose heart was like the streaming eaves Of ocean, throbbing at his side.
Death's cold white hand is like the snow Laid softly on the furrowed hill, It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids; His name a nation's heart shall keep Till morning's latest sunlight fades On the blue tablet of the deep.
THE VOICELESS WE count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them:-- Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! THE TWO STREAMS BEHOLD the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, In rushing river-tides! Yon stream, whose sources run Turned by a pebble's edge, Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun Through the cleft mountain-ledge.
The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid Of foam-flecked Oregon.
So from the heights of Will Life's parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each widening torrent bends,-- From the same cradle's side, From the same mother's knee,-- One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea! THE PROMISE NOT charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse; Please thy light fancy with the easy task Only to look and choose.
The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold.
Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing, as they part, The dark or glowing side.
One kindly deed may turn The fountain of thy soul To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn Long as its currents roll.
The pleasures thou hast planned,-- Where shall their memory be When the white angel with the freezing hand Shall sit and watch by thee?
Living, thou dost not live, If mercy's spring run dry; What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give, Dying, thou shalt not die.
HE promised even so! To thee his lips repeat,-- Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe Have washed thy Master's feet! March 20, 1859.
AVIS I MAY not rightly call thy name,-- Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim, Nor glistened with baptismal dew.
Daughter of want and wrong and woe, I saw thee with thy sister-band, Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.
"Avis!"-- With Saxon eye and cheek, At once a woman and a child, The saint uncrowned I came to seek Drew near to greet us,--spoke, and smiled.
God gave that sweet sad smile she wore All wrong to shame, all souls to win,-- A heavenly sunbeam sent before Her footsteps through a world of sin.
"And who is Avis ?"--Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,-- The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell.
With the lost children running wild, Strayed from the hand of human care, They find one little refuse child Left helpless in its poisoned lair.
The primal mark is on her face,-- The chattel-stamp,--the pariah-stain That follows still her hunted race,-- The curse without the crime of Cain.
How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate The little suffering outcast's ail?
Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.
Ah, veil the living death from sight That wounds our beauty-loving eye! The children turn in selfish fright, The white-lipped nurses hurry by.
Take her, dread Angel! Break in love This bruised reed and make it thine!-- No voice descended from above, But Avis answered, "She is mine." The task that dainty menials spurn The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown.
So Love and Death in lingering strife Stand face to face from day to day, Still battling for the spoil of Life While the slow seasons creep away.
Love conquers Death; the prize is won; See to her joyous bosom pressed The dusky daughter of the sun,-- The bronze against the marble breast! Her task is done; no voice divine Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame.
No eye can see the aureole shine That rings her brow with heavenly flame.
Yet what has holy page more sweet, Or what had woman's love more fair, When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet With flowing eyes and streaming hair?
Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown, The Angel of that earthly throng, And let thine image live alone To hallow this unstudied song! THE LIVING TEMPLE NOT in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen: Look in upon thy wondrous frame,-- Eternal wisdom still the same! The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, Whose streams of brightening purple rush, Fired with a new and livelier blush, While all their burden of decay The ebbing current steals away, And red with Nature's flame they start From the warm fountains of the heart.
No rest that throbbing slave may ask, Forever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net Which in unnumbered crossing tides The flood of burning life divides, Then, kindling each decaying part, Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.
But warmed with that unchanging flame Behold the outward moving frame, Its living marbles jointed strong With glistening band and silvery thong, And linked to reason's guiding reins By myriad rings in trembling chains, Each graven with the threaded zone Which claims it as the master's own.
See how yon beam of seeming white Is braided out of seven-hued light, Yet in those lucid globes no ray By any chance shall break astray.
Hark how the rolling surge of sound, Arches and spirals circling round, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear With music it is heaven to hear.
Then mark the cloven sphere that holds All thought in its mysterious folds; That feels sensation's faintest thrill, And flashes forth the sovereign will; Think on the stormy world that dwells Locked in its dim and clustering cells! The lightning gleams of power it sheds Along its hollow glassy threads! O Father! grant thy love divine To make these mystic temples thine! When wasting age and wearying strife Have sapped the leaning walls of life, When darkness gathers over all, And the last tottering pillars fall, Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, And mould it into heavenly forms! AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL TO J.R.

LOWELL WE will not speak of years to-night,-- For what have years to bring But larger floods of love and light, And sweeter songs to sing?
We will not drown in wordy praise The kindly thoughts that rise; If Friendship own one tender phrase, He reads it in our eyes.
We need not waste our school-boy art To gild this notch of Time;-- Forgive me if my wayward heart Has throbbed in artless rhyme.
Enough for him the silent grasp That knits us hand in hand, And he the bracelet's radiant clasp That locks our circling band.
Strength to his hours of manly toil! Peace to his starlit dreams! Who loves alike the furrowed soil, The music-haunted streams! Sweet smiles to keep forever bright The sunshine on his lips, And faith that sees the ring of light Round nature's last eclipse! February 22, 1859.
A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO J.F.CLARKE WHO is the shepherd sent to lead, Through pastures green, the Master's sheep?
What guileless "Israelite indeed" The folded flock may watch and keep?
He who with manliest spirit joins The heart of gentlest human mould, With burning light and girded loins, To guide the flock, or watch the fold; True to all Truth the world denies, Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin; Not always right in all men's eyes, But faithful to the light within; Who asks no meed of earthly fame, Who knows no earthly master's call, Who hopes for man, through guilt and shame, Still answering, "God is over all"; Who makes another's grief his own, Whose smile lends joy a double cheer; Where lives the saint, if such be known ?-- Speak softly,--such an one is here! O faithful shepherd! thou hast borne The heat and burden of the clay; Yet, o'er thee, bright with beams unshorn, The sun still shows thine onward way.
To thee our fragrant love we bring, In buds that April half displays, Sweet first-born angels of the spring, Caught in their opening hymn of praise.
What though our faltering accents fail, Our captives know their message well, Our words unbreathed their lips exhale, And sigh more love than ours can tell.
April 4, 1860.
THE GRAY CHIEF FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859 'T is sweet to fight our battles o'er, And crown with honest praise The gray old chief, who strikes no more The blow of better days.
Before the true and trusted sage With willing hearts we bend, When years have touched with hallowing age Our Master, Guide, and Friend.
For all his manhood's labor past, For love and faith long tried, His age is honored to the last, Though strength and will have died.
But when, untamed by toil and strife, Full in our front he stands, The torch of light, the shield of life, Still lifted in his hands, No temple, though its walls resound With bursts of ringing cheers, Can hold the honors that surround His manhood's twice-told years! THE LAST LOOK W.W.