Chapter 2

Dear songs of my country! How sweetly thy measures Come stealthily stealing o'er mountain and wave, To sweeten the riches of liberty's treasures And thrill with their numbers the hearts of the brave! To move in wild glory the souls of a nation, Till men are together so happily hurled, That millions are bound in fraternal relation And brotherhoods rule in the ranks of the world.

Such praises ye offer our heroes and sages, So grand is the greatness that lives in thy strains, That small is the fame of the far away ages, So sunken in tyranny, fettered in chains. For freedom ye strive and ye struggle for glory, And Liberty--Liberty still is your theme-- And glad are your lips with the national story, Which warriors have written on forest and stream.

Dear songs of my country! The soul patriotic Ye fill with the wishes of mighty emprise, Till conquers he tyranny harsh and despotic, Or first in the front of the battle he dies. Ye offer him laurels, ye crown him with praises, Who falls in the fight with his face to the foe, And gratitude over his sepulcher raises The marbles eternal of national woe.

Your strains are as high as the cloud-covered mountains, As deep as the ocean, as wide as the land, As pure as the murmurs of silvery fountains, But loud as the roar on the billowy strand. Our deep-furrowed prairies, our ship-laden rivers, Our ax-ringing forests, our steam-shrieking bays, Swell high in your music, for all are free givers To freedom's true grandeur and liberty's praise.

How fondly, dear songs of my country, ye cherish The struggle heroic, the God-shapen deed, That nothing of worthiness ever may perish But live to the time of humanity's need! Afar from the realms of the centuries olden, Ye summon with gladness the glories of years, To greet every hero with cadences golden, And sing every sage that in greatness appears.

The ages may falter thee, Land of my Birth, The years may thy grandeur and glory betray; But long as thy songs murmur over the earth, No forces can carry thy splendors away! Then live, ye dear songs of my country, forever, With voices eternal to utter her name, That cycles may never her liberty sever, Nor trample her greatness nor crumble her fame!

JULY FOURTH.

Hail, glorious morning of Columbia's birth, Celestial dawn of freedom! There shall be In recognition of thy wondrous worth By mighty millions this side of the sea, Triumphant crowns of laurel wreathed for thee! Welcome thy mammoth pageants, welcome all The choral songs and melodies of glee, The swelling shouts of praise that gladly fall From mighty multitudes in anthems national!

High hangs the sacred banner, and the stars Dance in the sunshine, while the breezes play Around the glory of the hallowed bars Gleaming in white and crimson; music gay Floats from the patriot host and cheers array Great shouts around its foldings. Long in state, Flag of the brave and free, wave o'er this day To bring the world rejoicings which await The natal hours of might, the day we celebrate!

How fears the tyrant in his capital, As myriad wires throb with the nation's tale! How despot trembles in his castled hall, When liberty's wild shouts of power prevail, And give their gladness unto every gale! Fetters and chains dissolve in holy trust, Scepters and swords in puny weakness fail, While crowns and thrones make monumental dust, And kingly Might is dead, Oppression downward thrust.

Wide float thy wondrous pæans; loudly range Thy songs of holy rapture; and the roars Of deep-mouthed cannons echo wild and strange Through shouting cities; Patriotism pours Her full libations on the trembling shores, Till earth reels with her triumph; and the voice Of millions mad with merriment far soars From sea to ocean with entrancing noise, Till nations hear the cry and continents rejoice.

Wave on, thou flag of freedom, and this day Still live in hearts of nations! O, thou Land, Where Man was first the monarch, where the sway Of birth exalted first was broken, stand To guard the helpless with a mighty hand, And give the weak protection; scout the ban Which tyrants utter, and with growing band Of noble freemen serve thy primal plan, And bind all nations in the Brotherhood of Man!

"O, GENTLE SHADE OF QUIET WOODS."

O, gentle shade of quiet woods, Where nature dwells in leafy halls, I love the sacred voice that falls In music o'er thy solitudes! Within thine arms the weary heart Is hidden from the toils of men, And pleasure makes ambition start Into a nobler life again.

Among the fragrant shadows throng With all the riches of their truth, Glad echoes from the days of youth And mingle into laughing song; While angel fingers touch the keys That slumber in the silent breast, Till mem'ry wakes her lullabies And childhood fancies rock to rest.

Again the hours of early joy Upon the aged years intrude, And dance amid the summer wood The golden dreamings of the boy; Again the songs of wonder thrill The days of life with gladness wild, And lofty visions fondly fill The longing fancies of the child.

Enchanted choirs of baby years, Sweet dirges from the cradle's keys, The glories of your harmonies Impel my secret soul to tears! The roses of my fancies fade Into the dust of wicked strife, And all the promise boyhood made Has proved the desert of my life.

O, fragrant woods of happy times, Fair children of the glowing days, How sweet the music of your lays Is mingled into fairy chimes! Ye lisp again the songs of yore, The stories of my infant years, And throw a sweeter cadence o'er My hoary sorrows and my tears!

LOVE.

Angelic theme of ancient lays! By Doric hills, Athenian vales, The nations bound thy brows with bays And fanned thy cheeks with scented gales; While golden lamps illumed thy shrines Beside the Tiber and the Po, Till anthems thine were taught to flow Along the Alps and Appenines.

The souls of sages and of slaves Were faithful servants unto thee, Whose rapture soothed the Grecian waves, And kissed the islands of the sea; And bounding on from strand to strand It crossed the coasts and climbed the slopes, To place a crown of tender hopes Upon the vine-clad Roman land.

Great empress of that early time, Glad ruler of the gentle souls, Each year is changed to raptured rhyme That o'er thy laughing bosom rolls; For cycles as they sink to rest So closely guard thy joy and truth, That fondness and immortal youth Give sweet embraces to thy breast.

Thou goddess of the Paphian shrine, Cytheran queen of Ion's isle, Fair Venus from the land of wine, The races love thy dewy smile; While silent hills and dewy glades Bear praises on each breeze that blows, Sweet as the breath of morning rose That blossoms in the woodland shades!

Then crown, O, Love, these later days With mystic charms of wondrous bliss, That lived when thou wert wreathed with bays, And nations hungered for thy kiss! No more thy temples tower above, But lives and bosoms hold thee dear; Then come with all thy worth of cheer And gentleness, O, mighty Love!

WINTERS ON THE FARM.

Glad winters on the olden farm! How raptures from those early times Commingle into fairy chimes Which gently banish cries of harm! My fainting soul finds rest the whiles Within the arms of memory, And tender scenes of boyish glee Transform my sorrows into smiles.

How brightly beamed the pleasures then, When frigid fingers came to throw A wintry winding sheet of snow Around the silent homes of men! But happiness found no alarm, For safe with cheer, secure with love, She gladly grew and sweetly throve Through winters on the olden farm.

With merry bells and busy sleighs, That sung and flew o'er icy vales And climbed the hills as fleet as gales, Like singing phantoms died the days; Or then with coat and muffler warm Sweet children glided on the lake, Or chased the rabbit through the brake, In winters on the olden farm.

How glad the joys at eventide When 'round the hearth-stone's pleasant heat The simple song in music sweet From loving voices floated wide! The mellowed apples gave a charm, While pop-corn white and cider bright With worlds of laughter lent delight To winters on the olden farm.

Thrice happy nights and happy days, Sweet isles of pleasure in the past, May long your hallowed moments cast A sacred sunshine o'er my ways! And where life leads me, gladly arm My soul with angel songs of bliss, With true embrace and holy kiss, O, winters on the olden farm!

"O, WEAK AND WEARY WORLD!"

O weak and weary world Forever struggling on, When will thy toils in comfort be impearled, When will thy sorrows and thy cares be gone? When shall the races, all ambition dead, Forsake the stony slope and rocky steep, And in contentment sweetly wed The joys that never sleep?

O, weak and weary world, Long hast thou toiled in vain; The smoky fumes of woe are darkly curled With endless troubles and enduring pain; When will thy bosom, faint and helpless grown, Rest sweetly in the balmy bowers of ease? Avoid the woes that constant groan And follow shapes that please?

O, weak and weary world, Why search the hills and seas? All Nature is in secrecy enfurled And thou canst never solve her mysteries; Thou canst not understand nor comprehend Her varied movements nor the intricate, The systems that so far extend, Creation wide and great.

O, weak and weary world, Why more attempt advance? Long have thy forces in confusion whirled In circles through the misty maze of chance; The nations rise and sink in sepulchres, Thy peoples perish in a common grave; Progression dies, perfection errs, Wrong rules the wood and wave.

O, weak and weary world, Let thy ambition rest! Long have defeat and gloomy ruin twirled In dark embrace the purest and the best; Destruction is thy portion, death thy part, Ashes thy glory, and thy splendor dust; Then ease the longings of thy breast; Serve pleasures well; and trust!

EX ANIMA.

The gloomy hours of silence wake Remembrance and her train, And phantoms through the fancies chase The mem'ries that remain; And hidden in the dark embrace Of days that now are gone, I see a form, a fairy form, And fancy hurries on!

I see the old familiar smile, I hear the tender tone, I greet the softness of the glance That cheered me when alone; The ruby chains of rich romance That bound our bosoms o'er, I still can know, I still can feel, As they were felt before.

I name the vows, the fresh young vows, That we together said; What matters it? She can not know; She slumbers with the dead! Again the fields of fate I sow, As she and I have sown; I dream again the same old dreams, But I am left alone!

The twining grasses verdant wreathe Above her silent grave; The rose and violet over all Their purest blossoms wave; Unbidden from their fountains fall The tender tides of tears; A sorrow winds among the days, And chains the passing years.

My life commingles shine with shade, The lily with the rose, And in my heart a loathsome weed Beside each lily grows; Through every thought, through every deed, The somber shadows play; And I am sad, alone and sad, And life is never gay.

"LO, ALL THE AGE IS RANK WITH WRONG."

Lo, all the age is rank with wrong! The nations kneel to monstrous might, And horrid cries that haunt the night, Have hushed the notes of happy song; Mankind the deepest truth has missed, The best emotions have grown dim; We praise the God that dwelt in Christ, But crucify the man in him.

Laws, noble, good, and great at first, With plan perverted, bind again The regal rights of mind and men And prove of tyrants far the worst; With blinded eyes is Nature made, And knows her constant purpose crossed, While crafty Jacob plies his trade And Esau finds his blessing lost.

Earth yields her fruits in ample store; Her children all are heirs that trace Their lineage through the royal race, And all her wealth is theirs--and more; But one with cunning hand controls The portions that his brothers fed, While thousands--just and worthy souls-- In aimless anguish cry for bread!

No royal blood by caste or creed, No pride of place, no gild of gold Can warm the weak, accursed with cold, Or light the awful nights of need; Labor alone can blessings bring To crown the brows of freedom's brave; The toiler is the truest king, The idler is the only slave!

But laugh, O, Labor, dry thy tears! A better day is drawing nigh; Hope brightens all the somber sky; The golden age of Love is near! Behold! But yonder stands a Star! The ancient lies are downward hurled; A man--a child--is greater far Than all the wealth of all the world!

"LOVE, THOU GAYEST FANCY-WEAVER."

Love, thou gayest fancy-weaver, Heart-betrayer, soul-deceiver, Come with all thy clinging kisses; Bringing all thy beaming blisses; It may serve the cynic's parts, If he curse and if he scout thee, But, O, where were gentle hearts, If they had to live without thee!

Weave the spells of thy beguiling 'Round and 'round me with thy smiling, Till the ashen cheek is beaming, And the faded eye is gleaming; Millions may endure the fight In the battle vain to end thee, But when taste they thy delight They will serve thee and defend thee.

Bring thy little winsome graces And the sweets of glad embraces, Till the pleasures all are dancing Into mazy whirls entrancing; It may please the icy breast To despise thee and distress thee, But the burning hearts find rest When they bless thee and caress thee.

Send thy gladness, laughing rover, All my sorrows o'er and over, Till the strains of happy pleasure Mingle in melodious measure; It may give a transient glee To condemn thy ways and sever, But the sweets of melody Thou wilt murmur on forever.

Bind my heart in silken chaining, Till from thee is none remaining; Clothe my soul in glad completeness Of thy happiness and sweetness; When the times are true, the soul May not hunger for thy gladness, But when surging sorrows roll Thou alone shall banish sadness.

THE FARMER.

Let nations encircle the brows of the brave With glory the greatest that glitters below, Who make in the blood of the battle a grave For all that are found in the ranks of the foe; But I from the greatness, the grandeur, and gleam, Would turn to the light of clear-glowing hearth, And choose from his joy for the soul of my theme The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let millions give worship to riches and wealth, That gay in their brilliancy sparkle and gleam, And serve with the hands of their happiest health The haughty who idle and revel and dream; In hall or in hamlet, in cottage or cave, Or sickened with sorrow or maddened with mirth, There's none I shall serve with the will of a slave But the farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let poets in praises heart-swelling and sweet With rapture that rises in beautiful song, Make sages immortal and ages replete With hundreds of heroes who wrestled the wrong; All honest men well from the Muses may claim The numbers that murmur to merit and worth, And so I would fold in the mantles of fame The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let orators over the deeds of the great Re-echo the tributes of tenderest praise, And over the ashes that slumber in state Let peoples their marbles and monuments raise; But I, from the frenzied applauses uncouth, To those who are chained in the bondage of birth, Would flee to surround with the lilies of truth The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let hearts that are grateful in gratitude crown The friend of the many and foe of the few; Let souls in their secret admiring enthrone Whatever a martyr or minion may do; But down in my bosom while reasonings reign, Of friendship and love there is never a dearth For him who is toiling in pleasure or pain, The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

"NATURE HAS A THOUSAND CHOIRS."

Nature has a thousand choirs Singing in the sylvan shadows, And the music of her lyres Echoes in the merry meadows; Always glad with golden glee Sounds her happy melody, Swelling wild in fairy measure With the songs of purest pleasure.

Where the dancing fountains play Winding warbles shake and shiver, And soft carols rise alway From the ripples of the river; Sweetest voices fondly call From the fleecy waterfall, And the joyful chimes are creeping Where the lovely lake is sleeping.

Raptures echo in the wood, Where the pimpernel reposes; Gladness fills the solitude Where the blushes kiss the roses; Sunny beam and somber gloom Utter hymns from bowers of bloom, Where the vernal winds are crying And the vocal birds are flying.

O'er the smiling scenes of earth Nature throws no sullen weather; All her soul is full of mirth, Song and springtime walk together; For the harps of happy days Wake the woodlands with their lays, And where lilies white are springing Gentle melodies are ringing.

O, wild Nature, from thy soul Fill the human hearts with gladness, Till their lives shall gladly troll Songs that banish all their sadness! Bathe their breasts with songs of love From the Edens found above, Till their lips shall sing the story Of their happiness and glory!

THE WORKINGMAN.

God bless the brawny arms of toil, The noble hearts and royal hands, That plow the plain and seed the soil, And grow the grains of laughing lands! King in the blessed vales of life Where perfect pleasures first began, May blessings come with raptures rife To crown the humble workingman!

His kingdoms wave with bannered corn And meadows bright with fairy bloom, While duties of his heart are born Where sylvan shadows hide the gloom; Sweet Nature fills his heart with health, While rustic warbles lead his soul Where rill and fountain sing by stealth And breezes soft with music roll.

He lives where simple wishes throng, And give contentment to his breast, While tender lullabies of song Bring angel gladness to his rest; No praises linger o'er his name Where he in silence works apart, And honor never links with fame The modest glories of his heart.

He needs no kiss of royal crown To wield the axe or guide the plow, Or woo the smiles of heaven down To cling in clusters on his brow; But in the sacred shine of love, With humble deeds he lives his days, And, drinking from the founts above, He scatters gladness o'er his ways.

Proud monarch of the tattered vest, Thy toil is fraught with greater gains Than his that bleeds where warrior crest Slays thousands on the battled plains! Thy duty prompts to build, to grow, The forest fell, the city plan And scatter seeds of love below, Where'er thou art, O, workingman!

GIVING AND FORGIVING.

'Tis not by selfish miser's greed The great rewards of love are given; 'Tis not the cynic's haughty creed Which gladly makes this world a heaven; But tender word and loving deed Increase the angel joys of living, And mortals gain life's grandest meed By acts of giving and forgiving.

Let warriors bold with armies fight Their awful battles brave and gory, To reap the harvest of their might And fill a gaping world with glory! The humble heroes, out of sight, Where hidden tears and woes are striving, Win victories for truth and right By deeds of giving and forgiving.

Let mighty kings of loyal lands Despise the faithful sons of duty, And with the swords of vandal hands Destroy the homes of joy and beauty; The honest lords of low commands Will find a nobler way of thriving, In lonely vales where sorrow stands, By sweets of giving and forgiving.

Let rich men with their heaps of gold Be servants of the shining splendor, And crush the bosom, poor and old, That lives by mercies pure and tender; But still the soul with saints enrolled Will keep its charity surviving, And have its humble glory told In tales of giving and forgiving.

O, helping hands and Christian hearts, Twin parents of the race's gladness, God speed the time when your sweet arts Shall banish every sign of sadness! When mournful cries, when pain's wild darts, Shall cease to curse the days of living, And Heaven's love to man imparts The joys of giving and forgiving.

"O, SACRED SOULS THAT GRANDLY SING."

O sacred souls that grandly sing The secret songs of human hearts, Where your wild music madly starts, The sorrows into raptures spring! Within the warbles of your chimes Man reads the longings of his days, And finds, amid your lofty lays, Glad music for his gloomy times.

How sweet the mute, melodious cries Which only lives like yours may hear, Where pleasures thrill the singer's ear With laughing strains of lullabies! You know soft voices, rich with love, That mingle in the fields and woods, To bless the silent solitudes With carols coming from above.

Your golden harps resound alway, Where valley bound with blossom lies, And rugged mountains highest rise, And silver fountains softly play; While in the gladness of your songs The fainting bosoms hope again, And toil among their fellow men, Forgetful of their ancient wrongs.

You sport with singing meadows bright, With fragrant winds and scented gales, Where shine and shadow kiss the vales In fairy fondness of delight; For where the meads and forests blend, The sweetest songs of life are found, And where the lonely hills abound The soul of music meets a friend.

Glad hearts that warble songs divine, Sweet singers of a mourning race, The ages long your brows shall grace With crowns where bays and laurels twine! For man the grandest garland brings, To bless the tender lives that tell, And with their mystic music swell, The lays that Nature fondly sings!

CHRISTMAS TIME.

How sweet the brazen belfries chime Across the hills and through the dales, And o'er the breasts of meadowed vales, Beneath the smiles of Christmas time! Rough sorrow's thorny fingers grow As soft and waxen as a child's, And balmy pleasures o'er the wilds Chant music to the drifting snow.

Ah, scattered locks that fringe my face, With wintry wisps of white and gray! Ah, sad, dimmed eyes that look away To artless childhood's tender grace! To-night those years with joys sublime Steal over me and fill my soul With lullabies of bliss that roll The golden glees of Christmas time.

Again I live in wondrous days, When baby hands with chubby glee Plucked gladness from the loaded tree Where loving burdens bent the sprays; The sunny songs of that sweet clime Sing softly in my soul again, Till I forget the ways of men And laugh and shout at Christmas time.