BOWDOIN STREET, BOSTON, 1877.
The end has come, as come it must To all things; in these sweet June days The teacher and the scholar trust Their parting feet to separate ways.
They part: but in the years to be Shall pleasant memories cling to each, As shells bear inland from the sea The murmur of the rhythmic beach.
One knew the joy the sculptor knows When, plastic to his lightest touch, His clay-wrought model slowly grows To that fine grace desired so much.
So daily grew before her eyes The living shapes whereon she wrought, Strong, tender, innocently wise, The child's heart with the woman's thought.
And one shall never quite forget The voice that called from dream and play, The firm but kindly hand that set Her feet in learning's pleasant way,-- The joy of Undine soul-possessed, The wakening sense, the strange delight That swelled the fabled statue's breast And filled its clouded eyes with sight.
O Youth and Beauty, loved of all! Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams; In broader ways your footsteps fall, Ye test the truth of all that seams.
Her little realm the teacher leaves, She breaks her wand of power apart, While, for your love and trust, she gives The warm thanks of a grateful heart.
Hers is the sober summer noon Contrasted with your morn of spring, The waning with the waxing moon, The folded with the outspread wing.
Across the distance of the years She sends her God-speed back to you; She has no thought of doubts or fears Be but yourselves, be pure, be true, And prompt in duty; heed the deep, Low voice of conscience; through the ill And discord round about you, keep Your faith in human nature still.
Be gentle: unto griefs and needs, Be pitiful as woman should, And, spite of all the lies of creeds, Hold fast the truth that God is good.
Give and receive; go forth and bless The world that needs the hand and heart Of Martha's helpful carefulness No less than Mary's better part.
So shall the stream of time flow by And leave each year a richer good, And matron loveliness outvie The nameless charm of maidenhood.
And, when the world shall link your names With gracious lives and manners fine, The teacher shall assert her claims, And proudly whisper, "These were mine!" HYMN OF THE CHILDREN.
Sung at the anniversary of the Children's Mission, Boston, 1878.
Thine are all the gifts, O God! Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod, And the starving fed.
Let Thy children, by Thy grace, Give as they abound, Till the poor have breathing-space, And the lost are found.
Wiser than the miser's hoards Is the giver's choice; Sweeter than the song of birds Is the thankful voice.
Welcome smiles on faces sad As the flowers of spring; Let the tender hearts be glad With the joy they bring.
Happier for their pity's sake Make their sports and plays, And from lips of childhood take Thy perfected praise! THE LANDMARKS.
This poem was read at a meeting of citizens of Boston having for its object the preservation of the Old South Church famous in Colonial and Revolutionary history.
I.
THROUGH the streets of Marblehead Fast the red-winged terror sped; Blasting, withering, on it came, With its hundred tongues of flame, Where St.Michael's on its way Stood like chained Andromeda, Waiting on the rock, like her, Swift doom or deliverer! Church that, after sea-moss grew Over walls no longer new, Counted generations five, Four entombed and one alive; Heard the martial thousand tread Battleward from Marblehead; Saw within the rock-walled bay Treville's liked pennons play, And the fisher's dory met By the barge of Lafayette, Telling good news in advance Of the coming fleet of France! Church to reverend memories, dear, Quaint in desk and chandelier; Bell, whose century-rusted tongue Burials tolled and bridals rung; Loft, whose tiny organ kept Keys that Snetzler's hand had swept; Altar, o'er whose tablet old Sinai's law its thunders rolled! Suddenly the sharp cry came "Look! St.Michael's is aflame!" Round the low tower wall the fire Snake-like wound its coil of ire.
Sacred in its gray respect From the jealousies of sect, "Save it," seemed the thought of all, "Save it, though our roof-trees fall!" Up the tower the young men sprung; One, the bravest, outward swung By the rope, whose kindling strands Smoked beneath the holder's hands, Smiting down with strokes of power Burning fragments from the tower.
Then the gazing crowd beneath Broke the painful pause of breath; Brave men cheered from street to street, With home's ashes at their feet; Houseless women kerchiefs waved: "Thank the Lord! St.Michael's saved!" II.
In the heart of Boston town Stands the church of old renown, From whose walls the impulse went Which set free a continent; From whose pulpit's oracle Prophecies of freedom fell; And whose steeple-rocking din Rang the nation's birth-day in! Standing at this very hour Perilled like St.Michael's tower, Held not in the clasp of flame, But by mammon's grasping claim.
Shall it be of Boston said She is shamed by Marblehead?
City of our pride! as there, Hast thou none to do and dare?
Life was risked for Michael's shrine; Shall not wealth be staked for thine?
Woe to thee, when men shall search Vainly for the Old South Church; When from Neck to Boston Stone, All thy pride of place is gone; When from Bay and railroad car, Stretched before them wide and far, Men shall only see a great Wilderness of brick and slate, Every holy spot o'erlaid By the commonplace of trade! City of our love': to thee Duty is but destiny.
True to all thy record saith, Keep with thy traditions faith; Ere occasion's overpast, Hold its flowing forelock fast; Honor still the precedents Of a grand munificence; In thy old historic way Give, as thou didst yesterday At the South-land's call, or on Need's demand from fired St.John.
Set thy Church's muffled bell Free the generous deed to tell.
Let thy loyal hearts rejoice In the glad, sonorous voice, Ringing from the brazen mouth Of the bell of the Old South,-- Ringing clearly, with a will, "What she was is Boston still!" 1879 GARDEN The American Horticultural Society, 1882.
O painter of the fruits and flowers, We own wise design, Where these human hands of ours May share work of Thine! Apart from Thee we plant in vain The root and sow the seed; Thy early and Thy later rain, Thy sun and dew we need.
Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of Earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.
Why search the wide world everywhere For Eden's unknown ground?
That garden of the primal pair May nevermore be found.
But, blest by Thee, our patient toil May right the ancient wrong, And give to every clime and soil The beauty lost so long.
Our homestead flowers and fruited trees May Eden's orchard shame; We taste the tempting sweets of these Like Eve, without her blame.
And, North and South and East and West, The pride of every zone, The fairest, rarest, and the best May all be made our own.
Its earliest shrines the young world sought In hill-groves and in bowers, The fittest offerings thither brought Were Thy own fruits and flowers.
And still with reverent hands we cull Thy gifts each year renewed; The good is always beautiful, The beautiful is good.
A GREETING Read at Harriet Beecher Stowe's seventieth anniversary, June 14, 1882, at a garden party at ex-Governor Claflin's in Newtonville, Mass.
Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours! To her who, in our evil time, Dragged into light the nation's crime With strength beyond the strength of men, And, mightier than their swords, her pen! To her who world-wide entrance gave To the log-cabin of the slave; Made all his wrongs and sorrows known, And all earth's languages his own,-- North, South, and East and West, made all The common air electrical, Until the o'ercharged bolts of heaven Blazed down, and every chain was riven! Welcome from each and all to her Whose Wooing of the Minister Revealed the warm heart of the man Beneath the creed-bound Puritan, And taught the kinship of the love Of man below and God above; To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks; Whose fireside stories, grave or gay, In quaint Sam Lawson's vagrant way, With old New England's flavor rife, Waifs from her rude idyllic life, Are racy as the legends old By Chaucer or Boccaccio told; To her who keeps, through change of place And time, her native strength and grace, Alike where warm Sorrento smiles, Or where, by birchen-shaded isles, Whose summer winds have shivered o'er The icy drift of Labrador, She lifts to light the priceless Pearl Of Harpswell's angel-beckoned girl! To her at threescore years and ten Be tributes of the tongue and pen; Be honor, praise, and heart-thanks given, The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven! Ah, dearer than the praise that stirs The air to-day, our love is hers! She needs no guaranty of fame Whose own is linked with Freedom's name.
Long ages after ours shall keep Her memory living while we sleep; The waves that wash our gray coast lines, The winds that rock the Southern pines, Shall sing of her; the unending years Shall tell her tale in unborn ears.
And when, with sins and follies past, Are numbered color-hate and caste, White, black, and red shall own as one The noblest work by woman done.
GODSPEED Written on the occasion of a voyage made by my friends Annie Fields and Sarah Orne Jewett.
Outbound, your bark awaits you.

Were I one Whose prayer availeth much, my wish should be Your favoring trade-wind and consenting sea.
By sail or steed was never love outrun, And, here or there, love follows her in whom All graces and sweet charities unite, The old Greek beauty set in holier light; And her for whom New England's byways bloom, Who walks among us welcome as the Spring, Calling up blossoms where her light feet stray.
God keep you both, make beautiful your way, Comfort, console, and bless; and safely bring, Ere yet I make upon a vaster sea The unreturning voyage, my friends to me.
1882.
WINTER ROSES.
In reply to a flower gift from Mrs.Putnam's school at Jamaica Plain.
My garden roses long ago Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks; Their pale, fair sisters smile no more Upon the sweet-brier stalks.
Gone with the flower-time of my life, Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride, And Nature's winter and my own Stand, flowerless, side by side.
So might I yesterday have sung; To-day, in bleak December's noon, Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues, The rosy wealth of June! Bless the young bands that culled the gift, And bless the hearts that prompted it; If undeserved it comes, at least It seems not all unfit.
Of old my Quaker ancestors Had gifts of forty stripes save one; To-day as many roses crown The gray head of their son.
And with them, to my fancy's eye, The fresh-faced givers smiling come, And nine and thirty happy girls Make glad a lonely room.
They bring the atmosphere of youth; The light and warmth of long ago Are in my heart, and on my cheek The airs of morning blow.
O buds of girlhood, yet unblown, And fairer than the gift ye chose, For you may years like leaves unfold The heart of Sharon's rose.
1883.
THE REUNION Read September 10, 1885, to the surviving students of Haverhill Academy in 1827-1830.
The gulf of seven and fifty years We stretch our welcoming hands across; The distance but a pebble's toss Between us and our youth appears.
For in life's school we linger on The remnant of a once full list; Conning our lessons, undismissed, With faces to the setting sun.
And some have gone the unknown way, And some await the call to rest; Who knoweth whether it is best For those who went or those who stay?
And yet despite of loss and ill, If faith and love and hope remain, Our length of days is not in vain, And life is well worth living still.
Still to a gracious Providence The thanks of grateful hearts are due, For blessings when our lives were new, For all the good vouchsafed us since.
The pain that spared us sorer hurt, The wish denied, the purpose crossed, And pleasure's fond occasions lost, Were mercies to our small desert.
'T is something that we wander back, Gray pilgrims, to our ancient ways, And tender memories of old days Walk with us by the Merrimac; That even in life's afternoon A sense of youth comes back again, As through this cool September rain The still green woodlands dream of June.
The eyes grown dim to present things Have keener sight for bygone years, And sweet and clear, in deafening ears, The bird that sang at morning sings.
Dear comrades, scattered wide and far, Send from their homes their kindly word, And dearer ones, unseen, unheard, Smile on us from some heavenly star.
For life and death with God are one, Unchanged by seeming change His care And love are round us here and there; He breaks no thread His hand has spun.
Soul touches soul, the muster roll Of life eternal has no gaps; And after half a century's lapse Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.
Hail and farewell! We go our way; Where shadows end, we trust in light; The star that ushers in the night Is herald also of the day! NORUMBEGA HALL.
Norumbega Hall at Wellesley College, named in honor of Eben Norton Horsford, who has been one of the most munificent patrons of that noble institution, and who had just published an essay claiming the discovery of the site of the somewhat mythical city of Norumbega, was opened with appropriate ceremonies, in April, 1886.

The following sonnet was written for the occasion, and was read by President Alice E.Freeman, to whom it was addressed.
Not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide Of Naumkeag's haven rises and retires, The vision tarried; but somewhere we knew The beautiful gates must open to our quest, Somewhere that marvellous City of the West Would lift its towers and palace domes in view, And, to! at last its mystery is made known-- Its only dwellers maidens fair and young, Its Princess such as England's Laureate sung; And safe from capture, save by love alone, It lends its beauty to the lake's green shore, And Norumbega is a myth no more.
THE BARTHOLDI STATUE 1886 The land, that, from the rule of kings, In freeing us, itself made free, Our Old World Sister, to us brings Her sculptured Dream of Liberty, Unlike the shapes on Egypt's sands Uplifted by the toil-worn slave, On Freedom's soil with freemen's hands We rear the symbol free hands gave.
O France, the beautiful! to thee Once more a debt of love we owe In peace beneath thy Colors Three, We hail a later Rochambeau! Rise, stately Symbol! holding forth Thy light and hope to all who sit In chains and darkness! Belt the earth With watch-fires from thy torch uplit! Reveal the primal mandate still Which Chaos heard and ceased to be, Trace on mid-air th' Eternal Will In signs of fire: "Let man be free!" Shine far, shine free, a guiding light To Reason's ways and Virtue's aim, A lightning-flash the wretch to smite Who shields his license with thy name! ONE OF THE SIGNERS.
Written for the unveiling of the statue of Josiah Bartlett at Amesbury, Mass., July 4, 1888.

Governor Bartlett, who was a native of the town, was a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Amesbury or Ambresbury, so called from the "anointed stones" of the great Druidical temple near it, was the seat of one of the earliest religious houses in Britain.