.
Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn In leather jerkin stained and torn, Whose talk has filled my idle hour And made me half forget the shower, I'll do at least as much for you, Your coat I'll patch, your gilt renew, Read you--perhaps--some other time.
Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime! SONGS OF MANY SEASONS 1862-1874 OPENING THE WINDOW THUS I lift the sash, so long Shut against the flight of song; All too late for vain excuse,-- Lo, my captive rhymes are loose.
Rhymes that, flitting through my brain, Beat against my window-pane, Some with gayly colored wings, Some, alas! with venomed stings.
Shall they bask in sunny rays?
Shall they feed on sugared praise?
Shall they stick with tangled feet On the critic's poisoned sheet?
Are the outside winds too rough?
Is the world not wide enough?
Go, my winged verse, and try,-- Go, like Uncle Toby's fly! PROGRAMME READER--gentle--if so be Such still live, and live for me, Will it please you to be told What my tenscore pages hold?
Here are verses that in spite Of myself I needs must write, Like the wine that oozes first When the unsqueezed grapes have burst.
Here are angry lines, "too hard!" Says the soldier, battle-scarred.
Could I smile his scars away I would blot the bitter lay, Written with a knitted brow, Read with placid wonder now.
Throbbed such passion in my heart?
Did his wounds once really smart?
Here are varied strains that sing All the changes life can bring, Songs when joyous friends have met, Songs the mourner's tears have wet.
See the banquet's dead bouquet, Fair and fragrant in its day; Do they read the selfsame lines,-- He that fasts and he that dines?
Year by year, like milestones placed, Mark the record Friendship traced.
Prisoned in the walls of time Life has notched itself in rhyme.
As its seasons slid along, Every year a notch of song, From the June of long ago, When the rose was full in blow, Till the scarlet sage has come And the cold chrysanthemum.
Read, but not to praise or blame; Are not all our hearts the same?
For the rest, they take their chance,-- Some may pay a passing glance; Others,-well, they served a turn,-- Wherefore written, would you learn?
Not for glory, not for pelf, Not, be sure, to please myself, Not for any meaner ends,-- Always "by request of friends." Here's the cousin of a king,-- Would I do the civil thing?
Here 's the first-born of a queen; Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.
Would I polish off Japan?
Would I greet this famous man, Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah ?-- Figaro gi and Figaro la! Would I just this once comply ?-- So they teased and teased till I (Be the truth at once confessed) Wavered--yielded--did my best.
Turn my pages,--never mind If you like not all you find; Think not all the grains are gold Sacramento's sand-banks hold.
Every kernel has its shell, Every chime its harshest bell, Every face its weariest look, Every shelf its emptiest book, Every field its leanest sheaf, Every book its dullest leaf, Every leaf its weakest line,-- Shall it not be so with mine?
Best for worst shall make amends, Find us, keep us, leave us friends Till, perchance, we meet again.
Benedicite .-- Amen! October 7, 1874.
IN THE QUIET DAYS AN OLD-YEAR SONG As through the forest, disarrayed By chill November, late I strayed, A lonely minstrel of the wood Was singing to the solitude I loved thy music, thus I said, When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now Thy carol on the leafless bough.
Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer The sadness of the dying year.
When violets pranked the turf with blue And morning filled their cups with dew, Thy slender voice with rippling trill The budding April bowers would fill, Nor passed its joyous tones away When April rounded into May: Thy life shall hail no second dawn,-- Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.
And I remember--well-a-day!-- Thy full-blown summer roundelay, As when behind a broidered screen Some holy maiden sings unseen With answering notes the woodland rung, And every tree-top found a tongue.
How deep the shade! the groves how fair! Sing, little bird! the woods are bare.
The summer's throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon; The birds have left the shivering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange-blooms, And thou art here alone,--alone,-- Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.
The snow has capped yon distant hill, At morn the running brook was still, From driven herds the clouds that rise Are like the smoke of sacrifice; Erelong the frozen sod shall mock The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock, The brawling streams shall soon be dumb,-- Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.
Fast, fast the lengthening shadows creep, The songless fowls are half asleep, The air grows chill, the setting sun May leave thee ere thy song is done, The pulse that warms thy breast grow cold, Thy secret die with thee, untold The lingering sunset still is bright,-- Sing, little bird! 't will soon be night.
1874.
DOROTHY Q.
A FAMILY PORTRAIT I cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q.more simply in prose than I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it.

Dorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and the niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot and orator who died just before the American Revolution, of which he was one of the most eloquent and effective promoters.

The son of the latter, Josiah Quincy, the first mayor of Boston bearing that name, lived to a great age, one of the most useful and honored citizens of his time.
The canvas of the painting was so much decayed that it had to be replaced by a new one, in doing which the rapier thrust was of course filled up.
GRANDMOTHER'S mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; So they painted the little maid.
On her hand a parrot green Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,-- Look! there's a rent the light shines through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust,-- That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.
Who the painter was none may tell,-- One whose best was not over well; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white, And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien.
Look not on her with eyes of scorn,-- Dorothy Q.was a lady born! Ay! since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name; And still to the three-billed rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.
O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.! Strange is the gift that I owe to you; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring,-- All my tenure of heart and hand, All my title to house and land; Mother and sister and child and wife And joy and sorrow and death and life! What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill?
Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another, to nine tenths me?
Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES Not the light gossamer stirs with less; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast, And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long! There were tones in the voice that whispered then You may hear to-day in a hundred men.
O lady and lover, how faint and far Your images hover,--and here we are, Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,-- Edward's and Dorothy's--all their own,-- A goodly record for Time to show Of a syllable spoken so long ago!-- Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive For the tender whisper that bade me live?
It shall be a blessing, my little maid! I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, And gild with a rhyme your household name; So you shall smile on us brave and bright As first you greeted the morning's light, And live untroubled by woes and fears Through a second youth of a hundred years.
1871.
THE ORGAN-BLOWER DEVOUTEST of My Sunday friends, The patient Organ-blower bends; I see his figure sink and rise, (Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering eyes!) A moment lost, the next half seen, His head above the scanty screen, Still measuring out his deep salaams Through quavering hymns and panting psalms.
No priest that prays in gilded stole, To save a rich man's mortgaged soul; No sister, fresh from holy vows, So humbly stoops, so meekly bows; His large obeisance puts to shame The proudest genuflecting dame, Whose Easter bonnet low descends With all the grace devotion lends.
O brother with the supple spine, How much we owe those bows of thine Without thine arm to lend the breeze, How vain the finger on the keys! Though all unmatched the player's skill, Those thousand throats were dumb and still: Another's art may shape the tone, The breath that fills it is thine own.
Six days the silent Memnon waits Behind his temple's folded gates; But when the seventh day's sunshine falls Through rainbowed windows on the walls, He breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills The quivering air with rapturous thrills; The roof resounds, the pillars shake, And all the slumbering echoes wake! The Preacher from the Bible-text With weary words my soul has vexed (Some stranger, fumbling far astray To find the lesson for the day); He tells us truths too plainly true, And reads the service all askew,-- Why, why the--mischief--can't he look Beforehand in the service-book?
But thou, with decent mien and face, Art always ready in thy place; Thy strenuous blast, whate'er the tune, As steady as the strong monsoon; Thy only dread a leathery creak, Or small residual extra squeak, To send along the shadowy aisles A sunlit wave of dimpled smiles.
Not all the preaching, O my friend, Comes from the church's pulpit end! Not all that bend the knee and bow Yield service half so true as thou! One simple task performed aright, With slender skill, but all thy might, Where honest labor does its best, And leaves the player all the rest.
This many-diapasoned maze, Through which the breath of being strays, Whose music makes our earth divine, Has work for mortal hands like mine.
My duty lies before me.

Lo, The lever there! Take hold and blow And He whose hand is on the keys Will play the tune as He shall please.
1812.
AT THE PANTOMIME THE house was crammed from roof to floor, Heads piled on heads at every door; Half dead with August's seething heat I crowded on and found my seat, My patience slightly out of joint, My temper short of boiling-point, Not quite at _Hate mankind as such_, Nor yet at _Love them overmuch_.
Amidst the throng the pageant drew Were gathered Hebrews not a few, Black-bearded, swarthy,--at their side Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed: If scarce a Christian hopes for grace Who crowds one in his narrow place, What will the savage victim do Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew?
Next on my left a breathing form Wedged up against me, close and warm; The beak that crowned the bistred face Betrayed the mould of Abraham's race,-- That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown hue,-- Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew I started, shuddering, to the right, And squeezed--a second Israelite.
Then woke the evil brood of rage That slumber, tongueless, in their cage; I stabbed in turn with silent oaths The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes, The snaky usurer, him that crawls And cheats beneath the golden balls, Moses and Levi, all the horde, Spawn of the race that slew its Lord.
Up came their murderous deeds of old, The grisly story Chaucer told, And many an ugly tale beside Of children caught and crucified; I heard the ducat-sweating thieves Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, And, thrust beyond the tented green, The lepers cry, "Unclean! Unclean!" The show went on, but, ill at ease, My sullen eye it could not please, In vain my conscience whispered, "Shame! Who but their Maker is to blame ?" I thought of Judas and his bribe, And steeled my soul against their tribe My neighbors stirred; I looked again Full on the younger of the twain.
A fresh young cheek whose olive hue The mantling blood shows faintly through; Locks dark as midnight, that divide And shade the neck on either side; Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam Clear as a starlit mountain stream;-- So looked that other child of Shem, The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem! And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood That flows immingled from the Flood,-- Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes! The New World's foundling, in thy pride Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, And lo! the very semblance there The Lord of Glory deigned to wear! I see that radiant image rise, The flowing hair, the pitying eyes, The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows The blush of Sharon's opening rose,-- Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat, Thy lips would press his garment's hem That curl in wrathful scorn for them! A sudden mist, a watery screen, Dropped like a veil before the scene; The shadow floated from my soul, And to my lips a whisper stole,-- "Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame, From thee the Son of Mary came, With thee the Father deigned to dwell,-- Peace be upon thee, Israel!" 18--.

Rewritten 1874.
AFTER THE FIRE WHILE far along the eastern sky I saw the flags of Havoc fly, As if his forces would assault The sovereign of the starry vault And hurl Him back the burning rain That seared the cities of the plain, I read as on a crimson page The words of Israel's sceptred sage:-- _For riches make them wings, and they Do as an eagle fly away_.
O vision of that sleepless night, What hue shall paint the mocking light That burned and stained the orient skies Where peaceful morning loves to rise, As if the sun had lost his way And dawned to make a second day,-- Above how red with fiery glow, How dark to those it woke below! On roof and wall, on dome and spire, Flashed the false jewels of the fire; Girt with her belt of glittering panes, And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes, Our northern queen in glory shone With new-born splendors not her own, And stood, transfigured in our eyes, A victim decked for sacrifice! The cloud still hovers overhead, And still the midnight sky is red; As the lost wanderer strays alone To seek the place he called his own, His devious footprints sadly tell How changed the pathways known so well; The scene, how new! The tale, how old Ere yet the ashes have grown cold! Again I read the words that came Writ in the rubric of the flame Howe'r we trust to mortal things, Each hath its pair of folded wings; Though long their terrors rest unspread Their fatal plumes are never shed; At last, at last they spread in flight, And blot the day and blast then night! Hope, only Hope, of all that clings Around us, never spreads her wings; Love, though he break his earthly chain, Still whispers he will come again; But Faith that soars to seek the sky Shall teach our half-fledged souls to fly, And find, beyond the smoke and flame, The cloudless azure whence they came! 1872.
A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY Read at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society.
No! never such a draught was poured Since Hebe served with nectar The bright Olympians and their Lord, Her over-kind protector,-- Since Father Noah squeezed the grape And took to such behaving As would have shamed our grandsire ape Before the days of shaving,-- No! ne'er was mingled such a draught In palace, hall, or arbor, As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed That night in Boston Harbor! The Western war-cloud's crimson stained The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon; Full many a six-foot grenadier The flattened grass had measured, And many a mother many a year Her tearful memories treasured; Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall, The mighty realms were troubled, The storm broke loose, but first of all The Boston teapot bubbled! An evening party,--only that, No formal invitation, No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat, No feast in contemplation, No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band, No flowers, no songs, no dancing,-- A tribe of red men, axe in hand,-- Behold the guests advancing! How fast the stragglers join the throng, From stall and workshop gathered! The lively barber skips along And leaves a chin half-lathered; The smith has flung his hammer down, The horseshoe still is glowing; The truant tapster at the Crown Has left a beer-cask flowing; The cooper's boys have dropped the adze, And trot behind their master; Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,-- The crowd is hurrying faster,-- Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush The streams of white-faced millers, And down their slippery alleys rush The lusty young Fort-Hillers-- The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,-- The tories seize the omen: "Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do For England's rebel foemen, 'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang, That fire the mob with treason,-- When these we shoot and those we hang The town will come to reason." On--on to where the tea-ships ride! And now their ranks are forming,-- A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side The Mohawk band is swarming! See the fierce natives! What a glimpse Of paint and fur and feather, As all at once the full-grown imps Light on the deck together! A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps, A blanket hides the breeches,-- And out the cursed cargo leaps, And overboard it pitches! O woman, at the evening board So gracious, sweet, and purring, So happy while the tea is poured, So blest while spoons are stirring, What martyr can compare with thee, The mother, wife, or daughter, That night, instead of best Bohea, Condemned to milk and water! Ah, little dreams the quiet dame Who plies with' rock and spindle The patient flax, how great a flame Yon little spark shall kindle! The lurid morning shall reveal A fire no king can smother Where British flint and Boston steel Have clashed against each other! Old charters shrivel in its track, His Worship's bench has crumbled, It climbs and clasps the union-jack, Its blazoned pomp is humbled, The flags go down on land and sea Like corn before the reapers; So burned the fire that brewed the tea That Boston served her keepers! The waves that wrought a century's wreck Have rolled o'er whig and tory; The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck Still live in song and story; The waters in the rebel bay Have kept the tea-leaf savor; Our old North-Enders in their spray Still taste a Hyson flavor; And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows With ever fresh libations, To cheat of slumber all her foes And cheer the wakening nations.
1874.
NEARING THE SNOW-LINE SLOW toiling upward from' the misty vale, I leave the bright enamelled zones below; No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow, Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale; Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale, That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow Along the margin of unmelting snow; Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail, White realm of peace above the flowering line; Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires! O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets shine, On thy majestic altars fade the fires That filled the air with smoke of vain desires, And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine! 1870.
IN WARTIME TO CANAAN A PURITAN WAR SONG This poem, published anonymously in the Boston Evening Transcript, was claimed by several persons, three, if I remember correctly, whose names I have or have had, but never thought it worth while to publish.
WHERE are you going, soldiers, With banner, gun, and sword?
We 're marching South to Canaan To battle for the Lord What Captain leads your armies Along the rebel coasts?
The Mighty One of Israel, His name is Lord of Hosts! To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To blow before the heathen walls The trumpets of the North! What flag is this you carry Along the sea and shore?
The same our grandsires lifted up,-- The same our fathers bore In many a battle's tempest It shed the crimson rain,-- What God has woven in his loom Let no man rend in twain! To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To plant upon the rebel towers The banners of the North! What troop is this that follows, All armed with picks and spades?
These are the swarthy bondsmen,-- The iron-skin brigades! They'll pile up Freedom's breastwork, They 'LL scoop out rebels' graves; Who then will be their owner And march them off for slaves?
To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To strike upon the captive's chain The hammers of the North! What song is this you're singing?
The same that Israel sung When Moses led the mighty choir, And Miriam's timbrel rung! To Canaan! To Canaan! The priests and maidens cried: To Canaan! To Canaan! The people's voice replied.
To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To thunder through its adder dens The anthems of the North.
When Canaan's hosts are scattered, And all her walls lie flat, What follows next in order?
The Lord will see to that We'll break the tyrant's sceptre,-- We 'll build the people's throne,-- When half the world is Freedom's, Then all the world's our own To Canaan, to Canaan The Lord has led us forth, To sweep the rebel threshing-floors, A whirlwind from the North.
August 12, 1862.
"THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS." IN poisonous dens, where traitors hide Like bats that fear the day, While all the land our charters claim Is sweating blood and breathing flame, Dead to their country's woe and shame, The recreants whisper STAY! In peaceful homes, where patriot fires On Love's own altars glow, The mother hides her trembling fear, The wife, the sister, checks a tear, To breathe the parting word of cheer, Soldier of Freedom, Go! In halls where Luxury lies at ease, And Mammon keeps his state, Where flatterers fawn and menials crouch, The dreamer, startled from his couch, Wrings a few counters from his pouch, And murmurs faintly WAIT! In weary camps, on trampled plains That ring with fife and drum, The battling host, whose harness gleams Along the crimson-flowing streams, Calls, like a warning voice in dreams, We want you, Brother! COME! Choose ye whose bidding ye will do,-- To go, to wait, to stay! Sons of the Freedom-loving town, Heirs of the Fathers' old renown, The servile yoke, the civic crown, Await your choice To-DAY! The stake is laid! O gallant youth With yet unsilvered brow, If Heaven should lose and Hell should win, On whom shall lie the mortal sin, That cries aloud, It might have been?
God calls you--answer NOW.
1862.
NEVER OR NOW AN APPEAL LISTEN, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you! You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame You whose fair heritage spotless descended, Leave not your children a birthright of shame! Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping,-- "Off for the wars!" is enough for them all! Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! 't is the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone! Never or now! cries the blood of a nation, Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom; Now is the day and the hour of salvation,-- Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom! Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skies; Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies! From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,-- From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,-- From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough, Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered, Hear the last Angel-trump,--Never or Now! 1862.
ONE COUNTRY ONE country! Treason's writhing asp Struck madly at her girdle's clasp, And Hatred wrenched with might and main To rend its welded links in twain, While Mammon hugged his golden calf Content to take one broken half, While thankless churls stood idly by And heard unmoved a nation's cry! One country! "Nay,"-- the tyrant crew Shrieked from their dens,--"it shall be two! Ill bodes to us this monstrous birth, That scowls on all the thrones of earth, Too broad yon starry cluster shines, Too proudly tower the New-World pines, Tear down the 'banner of the free,' And cleave their land from sea to sea!" One country still, though foe and "friend" Our seamless empire strove to rend; Safe! safe' though all the fiends of hell Join the red murderers' battle-yell! What though the lifted sabres gleam, The cannons frown by shore and stream,-- The sabres clash, the cannons thrill, In wild accord, One country still! One country! in her stress and strain We heard the breaking of a chain! Look where the conquering Nation swings Her iron flail,--its shivered rings! Forged by the rebels' crimson hand, That bolt of wrath shall scourge the land Till Peace proclaims on sea and shore One Country now and evermore! 1865.
GOD SAVE THE FLAG WASHED in the blood of the brave and the blooming, Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, Burning with star-fires, but never consuming, Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose.
Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it, Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall; Thousands have died for it, millions defend it, Emblem of justice and mercy to all: Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors, Mercy that comes with her white-handed train, Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors, 'Sheathing the sabre and breaking the chain.
Borne on the deluge of old usurpations, Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas, Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations, Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze! God bless the Flag and its loyal defenders, While its broad folds o'er the battle-field wave, Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its splendors, Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave! 1865.
HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION GIVER of all that crowns our days, With grateful hearts we sing thy praise; Through deep and desert led by Thee, Our promised land at last we see.
Ruler of Nations, judge our cause! If we have kept thy holy laws, The sons of Belial curse in vain The day that rends the captive's chain.
Thou God of vengeance! Israel's Lord! Break in their grasp the shield and sword, And make thy righteous judgments known Till all thy foes are overthrown! Then, Father, lay thy healing hand In mercy on our stricken land; Lead all its wanderers to the fold, And be their Shepherd as of old.
So shall one Nation's song ascend To Thee, our Ruler, Father, Friend, While Heaven's wide arch resounds again With Peace on earth, good-will to men! 1865.
HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO O GOD! in danger's darkest hour, In battle's deadliest field, Thy name has been our Nation's tower, Thy truth her help and shield.
Our lips should fill the air with praise, Nor pay the debt we owe, So high above the songs we raise The floods of mercy flow.
Yet Thou wilt hear the prayer we speak, The song of praise we sing,-- Thy children, who thine altar seek Their grateful gifts to bring.
Thine altar is the sufferer's bed, The home of woe and pain, The soldier's turfy pillow, red With battle's crimson rain.
No smoke of burning stains the air, No incense-clouds arise; Thy peaceful servants, Lord, prepare A bloodless sacrifice.
Lo! for our wounded brothers' need, We bear the wine and oil; For us they faint, for us they bleed, For them our gracious toil! O Father, bless the gifts we bring! Cause Thou thy face to shine, Till every nation owns her King, And all the earth is thine.
1865.
UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE APRIL 27,1861 EIGHTY years have passed, and more, Since under the brave old tree Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore They would follow the sign their banners bore, And fight till the land was free.
Half of their work was done, Half is left to do,-- Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington! When the battle is fought and won, What shall be told of you?
Hark!--'t is the south-wind moans,-- Who are the martyrs down?
Ah, the marrow was true in your children's bones That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones Of the murder-haunted town! What if the storm-clouds blow?
What if the green leaves fall?
Better the crashing tempest's throe Than the army of worms that gnawed below; Trample them one and all! Then, when the battle is won, And the land from traitors free, Our children shall tell of the strife begun When Liberty's second April sun Was bright on our brave old tree! FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN LAND where the banners wave last in the sun, Blazoned with star-clusters, many in one, Floating o'er prairie and mountain and sea; Hark! 't is the voice of thy children to thee! Here at thine altar our vows we renew Still in thy cause to be loyal and true,-- True to thy flag on the field and the wave, Living to honor it, dying to save! Mother of heroes! if perfidy's blight Fall on a star in thy garland of light, Sound but one bugle-blast! Lo! at the sign Armies all panoplied wheel into line! Hope of the world! thou'hast broken its chains,-- Wear thy bright arms while a tyrant remains, Stand for the right till the nations shall own Freedom their sovereign, with Law for her throne! Freedom! sweet Freedom! our voices resound, Queen by God's blessing, unsceptred, uncrowned! Freedom, sweet Freedom, our pulses repeat, Warm with her life-blood, as long as they beat! Fold the broad banner-stripes over her breast,-- Crown her with star-jewels Queen of the West! Earth for her heritage, God for her friend, She shall reign over us, world without end! ARMY HYMN "OLD HUNDRED" O LORD of Hosts! Almighty King! Behold the sacrifice we bring To every arm thy strength impart, Thy spirit shed through every heart! Wake in our breasts the living fires, The holy faith that warmed our sires; Thy hand hath made our Nation free; To die for her is serving Thee.
Be Thou a pillared flame to show The midnight snare, the silent foe; And when the battle thunders loud, Still guide us in its moving cloud.
God of all Nations! Sovereign Lord In thy dread name we draw the sword, We lift the starry flag on high That fills with light our stormy sky.
From treason's rent, from murder's stain, Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign,-- Till fort and field, till shore and sea, Join our loud anthem, PRAISE TO THEE!.