Part 2

The ice thronged Delaware ran bleak, but friendly, to the distant bay, While to and fro upon his beat the sentry took his patient way.

A gallant force full often tried was swiftly plying mattock, spade, While those who first should stem the tide, moved calmly forth as on parade.

They met in silence, halted, marched, the merest motion a command, A raging river rolled before; the “Lion” hungered near at hand.

The watchfires gleaming through the mist seemed saying:--Courage! men, good cheer. None may suppose while bright we burn, that not a soldier lingers near.

The hero faced a bank of gloom, it spoke security, success. He saw the country free and felt a glow of holy happiness.

Within the measure of a breath he saw the revolution o’er, He saw Mount Vernon smile in peace above the blue Potomac’s shore.

But happy times were yet to come, a grim invader walked the land, Oh that he might by one dread blow bid yonder Hessian horde disband.

The frost lay white upon his brow, the blizzard raved, he heeded not, No hand but God’s should stand between his army and the goal it sought.

And so he crossed the Delaware, a lesser man had quailed to view, He crossed it, for full well he knew how brave his men although how few.

The boat was faithful to its trust, it bore him slowly, surely, o’er; And scorned to heed the groaning mass that pressed upon it more and more.

So victor crowned, at early morn, through Trenton’s smoke hung streets he passed, Like one, who after weary days, has caught a glimpse of home at last.

He passed in triumph, passed to find, though other battles loomed before, That monarchy, could not again, in this free land her loss restore.

COMRADES.

Comrades, yea comrades in war and comrades in peace, Comrades when bugles were sounding a blessed release;

Comrades when bullets were whistling and death rode in sight, Comrades ’mid battle and conquest and comrades to-night.

Comrades when many a river ran red with blood, Comrades when war swept us on with the force of a flood; Comrades when charging the fortress each fain would be first; Comrades where thickest and fiercest the hissing shells burst.

Comrades, even as in the great conflicts of yore, Comrades with danger behind us and danger before; Comrades when tempests of sorrow were shrouding the sky, Comrades to suffer and conquer, or suffer and die.

CHARACTER.

Armed with reason, braced by knowledge, Surely such a one is king; Ready in his honest manhood For whatever fate may bring. Public spirited, courageous, Gauging chances at their best; Let his character commend him, Time will gladly do the rest.

WHAT IS THERE TO BE THANKFUL FOR?

“What is there to be thankful for?” I think I hear you say: Hope is a happy counsellor When clouds hang dull and gray; The sky is dark, the way is long, The hours move sad and slow; A fitting time for one sweet song To set the heart aglow.

A fitting time for one sweet song To echo far and wide, The sky is dark, the way is long, My strength is sorely tried. Though dark the sky and long the way, I’ll keep love’s armor bright. Still singing, through the night, the day, I know God’s will is right.

How oft the eager pulse must thrill To robin’s liquid note; A merry tune, the May-buds trill ’Neath winter’s shielding coat. There sounds a gracious hymn of praise From ev’ry living thing; Because the sun refuse its rays Can I refuse to sing?

Can I refuse to sing when some Might find the timid strain More powerful than trump or drum, And swell the glad refrain? Lo, Christ has made me free to rise From man’s forlorn estate, To look beyond the stormy skies And see the pearly gate.

What is there to be thankful for? A will that would obey; A soul that stands as conqueror, And this, that I may pray. Lo, Christ has made me free to rise From man’s forlorn estate, I look beyond the stormy skies And see the pearly gate.

LIFE’S TEMPLE.

How shall we plan life’s temple? With a height divine, Wherein rare workmanship and worth combine; Or low and rambling, that the prisoned soul May trace no semblance of the wondrous whole, To which its hopes so eagerly aspire? We can but fashion what we most admire.

How shall we plan life’s temple? By design complete, Which on the world’s highway we fain would meet; Then ere Night dons her star-encrusted veil To silent journey over hill and dale, The dream of youth, at least, may proudly stand-- An ideal structure in an ideal land.

How shall we build life’s temple? Build it stone on stone And ever build, no part abides alone. We labor vainly if we fail to know A firm foundation though ’tis builded slow, Is built to stand, when hearts are bold to dare And bound to conquer as to do and bear.

WHAT DO WE OWE OUR FRIENDS?

What do we owe our friends? We owe them love, not fear, Love that the closer clings when storms are near; Love that shall speak in eye, in voice, in hand, And steadfast stand.

What do we owe our friends but loyalty and trust? Forever faithful, sympathetic, just; A peerless comforter, and shield and guide, Whate’er betide.

What do we owe our friends? The kinship of good deeds, A soul responsive to their deepest needs, To share life’s burdens all the weary way, And watch, and pray.

What do we owe our friends? The patience which forbears; And fond communion ’mid their joys, their cares; A gracious spirit firm to do its best, Nor doubt, nor rest.

What do we owe our friends? Kind thoughts and pleasant cheer Born of affection tender and sincere, And ready service, the efficient seal Of earnest zeal.

What do we owe our friends? We owe them love, not fear, Love that the closer clings when storms are near, Love that shall speak in eye, in voice, in hand, And steadfast stand.

MEMORIAL DAY.

[Dedicated to the G. A. R. Read at Huntington Hall.]

With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow, Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below; Oh, gather by the sacred dust of comrades loyal, true, Wave over them thy benison, the red, the white, the blue.

May this fair Union stand complete, a monument divine To those who sacrificed their lives at freedom’s holy shrine; Upon each thirtieth of May with solemn tread we come, And pay them tender tribute to the throbbing of the drum.

We marched with them, we fought with them, our bed the sullen sod, With not a star above us and without a hope, save God; ’Mid cannon’s roar, the halt, the dash, the victory, retreat, We saw them falling ’round us as the sickle fells the wheat.

Oh, dark the days that followed fast on Baltimore, Bull Run, Beneath the torrid fierceness of a blazing southern sun; With Butler in his bold campaigns, with Sherman by the sea, We shoulder stood to shoulder in the battle of the free.

And ever through the living past there flows a tender vein, To stir the heart and open wounds that bleed and bleed again, As tearful eyes and empty arms to death itself appealed, Alas for those who sadly knelt on Desolation’s field!

Oh, there are many lonely lie beneath the rev’rent blue, But they will not be missing from the final grand review; Let wives and mothers gather near, and little children weep Above the dreary pillows where the martyred heroes sleep.

The martyred heroes; yonder shaft of granite guards a spot, The sepulchre of comrades that can never be forgot; While pride endures, and nations thrive, and patriots survive Must Lowell keep the mem’ry of her own great loss alive.

She scatters garlands o’er her dead and softly tolls the bells, But for her martyred heroes are the precious immortelles. Oh, Ladd and Whitney, side by side, in peaceful silence rest, Among the fairest jewels that adorn Columbia’s breast.

We cannot think of them as lost, for moving on and on The soul shall rise triumphant on the resurrection morn; Upon the angel wings of prayer let thought sublime ascend Until we feel the grandeur that the dying comprehend.

With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow, Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below; And mingle with the breath of flowers that sigh above the brave, The note of lamentation, like an echo from the grave.

The laurel wreath, the tearful eye and Honor’s fairest crown Are drops in life’s great ocean to the price that they laid down. Hush! listen to the sacred dirge, it swells,--it sobs,--it dies: Until we see them marching, marching home beyond the skies.

OUR CITY.

Turn backward the close written pages, Close written with deeds breathing praise, A secret attracting the sages, The fruitful reward of our gaze. Yes, turn back the close written pages, in gratitude seeking the clue; Be thankful to find it and wonder to such a fair record review.

Her history daily unfolding, Through life of the daughter, the son, From models the moments are molding The fame of our city is won. Her rapid development shows us, the Merrimack’s run to the sea Has not been more true to its mission than she to her promise will be.

How patiently Labor has striven, Bespeaking the boon of success; The loom and the spindle once given Have proven as guerdons to bless. The fields boldly trodden by red men, in league with each meadow and hill, Where lingered the good Wannalancit, now answer to Industry’s will.

While yet a mere village came duly Determined and far seeing men, So skillfully wrought they, so truly, The present was plain to them, then. They planned with a clear sighted vision, their eyes on futurity bent, Ambitious to build to their utmost, that none might have cause to lament.

The hand-maiden Knowledge beside them Led Genius, twin-brother of Art; A blessing could not be denied them, Each steadfastly doing his part. The summons of Lincoln stood honored as soon as the summons was heard, And later when Cuba was calling how many went forth at the word.

Adversity’s forces defying The County, the Country, the State On Lowell are wise in relying Till tempests of trouble abate. Rejoice in the marvellous brightness illuming the glorious past, Prosperity’s presence will grandly the scope of the future forecast.

NIGHT.

The mellow moonbeams glint along the waves, Beyond the inky blur yon frowning height Full oft impresses on the tranquil deep. What eagle glances pierce the veil of gloom! Each galaxy of light proclaims a town, Instinct with life, as childhood is with joy. Afar, like some dim phantom of the hour, A liner speeds majestic on her way; While beaconward a schooner lies at ease, A graceful shadow on a silvered sea.

LITTLE WIDE-AWAKE.

Would you see a winsome fairy with her baby eyes alight, As she wrestles with the problem: “Oh, will Santy come to-night?” Mischief beaming in the glances where the dainty dimples hide, ’Mid a wealth of wiles bewitching at the merry Christmas tide. Twice her eager ears have heard, Sounds as if the yule log stirred; Thrice the reindeer bells have rung Since the twilight hour was young.

From her rosy lips and fingers honey-sweet caresses fall, Like a tender benediction on the loving hearts of all; And with each exultant jingle from the busy street below Hark the joyful proclamation:--“He is coming now, I know.” Singing blithely as a wren:-- “Peace on earth, good will to men.” Wafted on the strain so sweet, Surely earth and heaven meet.

How she warms and glows and sparkles, like a precious human gem, Till she kneels beside the chimney at the setting of P.M. With her gentle face uplifted and the drooping lashes wet, Whispering the fond petition which she never can forget:-- For the lonely and the sad That the morrow may be glad, And that Kris herself will bless With just one benign caress.

Hurry, darling, let us go to the magic realm of sleep, It is over there, you know, we may hear a love-bird peep; Hang the stocking up in state where Saint Nicholas must see, Then away to fair dreamland on the fast express with me. Happy Little Wide-Awake, Santy comes and no mistake; But she misses half the bliss Of his pleasant smile and kiss.

TRY TO HELP ANOTHER.

Try to help another whether friend or foe, And the sweet soul-sunshine shall the brighter glow; Try to help another fainting by the way, Lo! the night of sorrow turneth into day. Try to help another, be he small or great, Try to help him onward ere it is too late; Try to help him onward, try to help him up, Add a heav’nly flavor to his bitter cup.

INDEPENDENCE.

Dimly was the magnitude of the vast result foreseen When England smote America on Lexington’s fair green. A just retaliation of the most unrighteous blow, The hand of the oppressor set the nation’s heart aglow.

There was burning indignation, it swept the outraged land, The blood of murdered brothers grew too urgent to withstand. Responsive to the message men were quickened by the news, Confronting vital issues little need to stop and choose.

The spirit of the people sympathized with those who bore The burden of the battle and the sword was sheathed no more. For how could those who suffered be content to bend the knee To tyranny? ’Twere “better far to die or to be free.”

A noble deed is eloquent to noble deeds inspire, With broken ranks or columns massed we meet the foeman’s fire. ’Twere better far to perish than to linger here a slave, God favored independence in the leader, true, he gave.

In that dread hour both sad and sweet which hallowed Bunker Hill, The bud of freedom flourished in an atmosphere of will, As Prescott faltered step by step down yonder rugged slope, His being conquered sorrow in a sudden rush of hope.

While valiantly contending for the long defended field, He felt Columbia’s future to her noble sons appealed. The effort was successful in the impulse many gained, To consecrate their powers to a cause so well maintained.

As Prescott faltered step by step down yonder rugged slope, His being conquered sorrow in a sudden rush of hope. In place of troops and smoking spires a peaceful city stood; No foreign forces fettered her, she wrought for human good.

The vessels raining shot and shell, gave way to ships of trade; No horde, with hostile purpose, dared the busy streets invade. A whisper of its presence would united wrath awake, Beware of idle sophistries, a nation’s life at stake.

The nation’s life at stake, one word will rouse us from our rest, The patriot stands ready to submit to sternest test. What sacrifice is too severe when danger is at hand? The hero’s arm is strong to strike for home and native land.

CONTRASTED LIVES.

Successful men, Woo the diffusive fire And yet feel cold. What of the homeless, then, In pitiful attire, Poor, feeble, old?

Affluence weeps, A bird the weather kills, Great souls despair. Love willing vigil keeps, Till want all feeling chills, Frozen by care.

Think not to choose, Or mere convenience seek, Some faint heart cheer. Who comfort could refuse, To weary ones and weak Perishing near?

THE WAY WILL OPEN.

The way will open it is true If I but do my best, I’ll do the things I find to do And leave to God the rest.

Although the clouds are hanging low And all the way seems dark, I’ll do the very best I know:-- The dove was in the ark.

The way will open; Soul, be strong, And rise to do thy best. The shadows cannot last for long, There’s roses in the west.

What matter is the tempest’s rage? I’ve but to do my part, ’Tis love alone that can assuage The tempest of the heart.

The way will open it is true I’ve but to do my best, I’ll do the things I find to do And leave to God the rest.

SPRING.

Bright-eyed goddess,--witching spring,--as thy amber tresses glow, Kindled to immortal flame Is the breath of honor,--fame. Well may poets hymn thy praise,--fancy flutter to and fro,-- To a measure full and fleet, to a measure stately, slow; Thence with heaven for an aim, Rushing on with glad acclaim: Hearken to the strain and know, blessed Beulah here below, Wake! The living notes prolong in a symphony of song, Floating on the perfumed air In the angel arms of prayer; Welcome goddess, spring divine; beauty visions ’round thee twine; Violets and blossoms sweet Nestle fondly at thy feet.

VICTORIA.

When have men or nations seen A life, to rival England’s queen? What vital interests compressed Within its span, what truths confessed, A long, a useful, noble reign.

Maidenhood and age attain A broader meaning as we view, Her record, glorious as true. Each subject, brave to do his part, Found ready welcome to her heart.

She, the soldier’s work well done, Proclaimed the wounded hero “Son”; A royal soul alone reveres, Worth, where ever it appears, As light must all the brighter shine.

Springing from a source divine; Benevolence, when simply shown, Will gracefully adorn a throne: The righteous wisdom of her aim, Glorifies Victoria’s name.

FREEDOM’S SON.

Do you love him, Freedom’s son, Great, Immortal Washington? Is your raptured soul athrill, At his majesty of will? Unsubdued by doubts and fears, Proudest of all proud careers, It was his to boldly climb Till his deeds stood forth sublime.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son, Great, immortal, Washington? See the armies he has led Up and on where heroes bled? Battle’s brunt, the foeman’s fire, Seem but given to inspire, Well his spirit might prevail For he could not, would not fail.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son, Great, immortal, Washington? Face the ice-thronged Delaware Knowing death itself is there? Hark! the rasping, sharp as steel, How it throbs along the keel; Fog-enwrapped but firm he stands With the future in his hands.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son, Great, immortal, Washington? Called to crown a record fair In the Presidential chair. First of many bound to own This brave people’s heart a throne, On the honor roll of fame Men must ever read his name.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son, Great, immortal, Washington? Surely we are wreathing now, Fadeless laurel for his brow. When we meet to speak his praise, Speak the wisdom of his ways, In a nation’s life we view * * * Washington, the tried, the true.

OUR RIVER.

Our river, thine and mine; With what intrepid haste it leaps the falls Glancing, dancing, whirling, purling, on Over the gleaming rocks, whose falchions keen Would rend for aye the glinting canopy Which spans the flood in rainbow-tinted folds. Anon the waters lift impulsive arms Toward yonder sun through bridal veils of mist. Never is man more moved than when he stands Gauging the force Omnipotence creates.

SUNSET.

See the cloudlets float to rest, At the portals of the west; How they glimmer, how they glance In a merry sunset dance.

Beautiful and sweet and fair, As the spirit of a prayer; With what confidence they lie On the bosom of the sky.

How they crown the brow of night With a wreath of ruddy light; Fair as any flower that blows In the twilight, pink and rose.

Even so our earthly way, It will not be always gray; Soon we, too, shall float to rest-- Past the portals of the west.

MEMORIAL POEM.

[Dedicated to the G. A. R. and read at Huntington Hall.]

Oh, peaceful are the humble graves of fallen comrades far and near, In sweet communion with the gift we gladly offer year by year To those who knelt at Freedom’s shrine in all the beauteous bloom of youth, And fell, a living sacrifice, upon the altar stone of truth.

Though many of our brave marines are resting in the boundless deep, No band of brothers bending near, the stars eternal vigil keep; If we can never kneel and say “A noble comrade lies below,” Upon the honor roll of fame his record shall the brighter glow.

Where legions of the “great unknown” beneath the dainty lilies sleep, Let little children softly come above the sacred dust to weep; A solemn sweetness fills the hours when thus devoted to the dead Who fearless faced the cannon’s mouth and for Columbia fought and bled.

Oh, how we love to gather here upon each thirtieth of May, And dedicate our choicest thoughts to glorify the Soldiers’ Day; Beyond the worth of worldly store, or empty plaudits of renown, The broken shackles of the slave are jewels in the heavenly crown.

To follow Butler’s bold campaigns must every loyal heart inspire, As when he woke the gallant Sixth to kindle treason’s funeral pyre, While Ladd and Whitney doomed to fall that dismal day at Baltimore Were eager with their dying breath to hail the stars and stripes once more.

* * * * *

Athwart the face of Memory’s page we watch the busy brush of Time Indorsing each heroic deed with one decisive word--“Sublime!” The voice of victory arose amid the ardor of the strife, And the patriots--these before me, had preserved a nation’s life.

Consult the dreary prison pen--the wounded heroes side by side, Who in the weary march of months were sadly wishing they had died; And marvel not that some are bowed as with a heavy weight of years, But give to them a gracious meed, of love and gratitude, and tears.

Behold the spires of Gettysburg, the waving wheat, the orchard fair, How calm it was until the strength of hostile forces entered there, And then the awful rush and roar of surging armies, day by day, Of Sickles in the grim retreat, and Sedgwick as he stood at bay.

Oh, how the waiting North rejoiced when Hancock’s sturdy arm prevailed, Defeated in that last dread charge the flower of the South had failed; And we have welcomed here tonight the comrades who as conquerors stood, Whose hands thenceforth were closely linked in one eternal brotherhood.

And while they mourned the tender ties which lay unheeded mid the slain, Yet not a man would dare proclaim that such as these had died in vain. Oh, beautiful, and bright, and fair, the glorious banner of the free, A peerless synonym of right, of hope, of love, of liberty.

And never shall a fold be rent, a color fade, a star be lost, For freedom sees its azure field with gems of precious blood embossed; We well may hush our hearts to hear the thrilling dirges sob and die, Until they almost seem to us like angel whispers floating by.

BLESSED WAS THE NAME SHE BORE.