Part 3

Wake! oh, nation; wake, and sing! Bid the “arch of heaven” ring; Praise, in sweet accord, our pride-- Thirty summers Neptune’s bride. Kearsarge, a hymn to thee Floateth over land and sea; Hark, the chorus! hear it soar-- “Blessed was the name she bore.”

Volumes of heroic verse Shall thy victories rehearse; Well may rhythm swiftly chime To a measure full--sublime Kearsarge, a hymn to thee Floateth over land and sea; Hark, the chorus! hear it soar-- “Blessed was the name she bore.”

Though Roncador--reef of woe-- Like a traitor laid thee low; As Aurora cleaves the sky, Rise! the “god of storms” defy. Kearsarge, a hymn to thee Floateth over land and sea; Hark, the chorus! hear it soar-- “Blessed was the name she bore.”

Swift, as light along the hill, Fly! Columbia’s bosom thrill; Crucified by flood, by fire-- Come, Futurity, inspire. Kearsarge, a hymn to thee Floateth over land and sea; Hark, the chorus! hear it soar-- “Blessed was the name she bore.”

Lo! thy ashes softly lie ’Neath a tender southern sky; Yet on honor’s tide ye sail, Like a ship before the gale. Kearsarge, a hymn to thee Floateth over land and sea; Hark, the chorus! hear it soar-- “Blessed was the name she bore.”

CONTENT.

Is there a place in the whole, wide, world Like the beautiful vale content; The fair, white, banner of peace unfurled As our hopes in one are blent By mutual glad consent.

Is there a place the foe cannot reach, Stands the dark featured King subdued? Is each prayer the Spirit would teach With gracious power imbued Are the thought rifts rainbow hued?

Is there a place where the weary rest Knowing how well the past was meant? In sharing the birthright of the blest, Bliss of heaven to thee is lent Beautiful vale of content.

VIOLET.

Violet tender and sweet clasped to the bosom of earth, Lift up thy bonny blue eye, happy the day of thy birth. Thine is a glorious lot, bearing the word of the king, Calling the world to rejoice breathing of beauty and spring; Violet, tender and sweet.

Violet tender and sweet plucked from the bosom of earth Lift up thy bonny blue eye, happy the day of thy birth. Close in thy petals of pearl, of beautiful amethyst cling, Fresh with the balm of the wood the odorous essence of spring; Violet, tender and sweet.

“LONGEST LANES MUST HAVE A TURNING.”

Shall we dare to be despondent, though the way is rough and cold? “Longest lanes must have a turning,” is a saying never old. Who would feebly faint or falter on life’s journey? Day by day Grateful sunbeams softly greet us, through the heavy mists of gray; Blessed gifts the Great All-Father sends to cheer our earthly lot, And to whisper, sweetly, fondly, that we never are forgot.

Ay, ’tis hard when dreary trouble comes to pierce the faithful heart, And hope spreads her airy pinions as if eager to depart; Sickness, with its hand of iron--Justice, with a frowning face, Wilfully conspire to crush us in a cruel, stern embrace: Shall we bow beneath the burden, though it is so hard to bear, Or arise and do our utmost, boldly breaking from despair?

Brothers, sisters, little children,--weak with hunger, bleeding feet,-- Bravely meet the dusky foemen, make the victory complete. Many weep o’er thy misfortunes,--courage! yet will come a friend; Do not sink upon the highway, surely this is not the end. Let us use our best endeavor, ever seeking out the light,-- “Longest lanes must have a turning,”--one is even now in sight.

IS THERE NOT SOMETHING WE CAN DO?

Is there not something we can do, To smooth the rugged road? Men struggle onward, death in view, Each with his own great load. Men struggle onward, weak of arm, But chivalrous of soul; Where is the hand to do them harm, Or keep them from the goal.

What joy to honest worth assist, To move the stumbling stone; Good vantage ground is often missed When pressing on alone. To bring a burdened brother ease, Though long the way and rough; Or bid the storm of trouble cease, We cannot do enough.

SUNNY DAYS.

Of course we value sunny days And all of nature’s pleasant ways, The merry birds, the balmy sky, The happy brooklet laughing by, With the clouds come darker hours, Good for us as for the flowers.

How bright the meadow after rain; How calm the heart is after pain. We owe indeed a wondrous debt To ev’ry trouble bravely met; A debt that no one ever pays, Our thanks are for the sunny days.

BUNKER HILL.

From Cambridge, through the solemn moving night, With firm determination to be free, Our fathers came, that this proud shaft might be Synonymous of liberty and right. Pale moonbeams strove to cast a languid light, Upon the patriot band and that true sea, Which once was bold to brew good English tea. Scarce hidden by a mask too frail for flight, Across “The Neck” their fearless footsteps sped, Ere morning could the sullen east assail To mingle with her coming joy and dread, The fierce redoubt and breastwork marked a trail Of glory, up the path where Honor led, Those master spirits eager to prevail.

A gallant sight and noble, did it quell, The squadron swan-like sweeping to and fro, Upon the Mystic and the Charles? oh, no! The Britons captive to the subtle spell Yet read the meaning of its signal well. When from the “Lively” came a sudden glow, Then swift the leaden hail fell blow on blow, Gage, governor, commander, heard the knell Of that first warning boom and wounded pride Spoke in his wrathful face, his hurried gait, As gazing o’er the smoothly flowing tide He felt his own wise plan had come too late; But on an easy conquest still relied To claim those frowning heights, the town, the state.

DOING.

Keep doing, always doing, Wishing, dreaming, what are they? Tempters idle steps pursuing, Foemen ambushing the way.

Keep doing, bravely doing, Never falter, never fail, Day by day your strength renewing, Gird your armor on, prevail!

Keep doing, wisely doing, Working upward as you may; Human interest accruing Will a high percentage pay.

Keep doing, boldly doing, Use the talents time may lend; Right upholding, self reviewing, The down-trodden truth defend.

Keep doing, ever doing, Trusting, when you cannot see; Fearing not, a tempest brewing, Knowing what the end will be.

FOR FEEBLE HANDS.

It is not so much what we wish that counts, As the little we really achieve; The duty we do to-day amounts To more than we ever perceive. There are tasks just fitted for feeble hands, For the feeble as well as the strong; Be bold to stand where the right demands And bound to vanquish wrong.

LITTLE CAN’T-WAIT.

Have you met her? Little Can’t-Wait, she is sweet and bright and fair, With her sunny, floating, ringlets and bewitching baby air; Just a pretty bit of mischief all impatient now to know If St. Nicholas, dear fellow, by her tiny socks will go.

Quite alone on Christmas evening, she has planned it out to hide And is bound to capture Santy, brisk and jolly from his ride. Little Can’t-Wait is so winsome as she lays this clever plot, That I toss her to the ceiling and caress her on the spot.

But the darling, I’ve a notion, like a bird upon its nest In the cosy chimney corner will glide softly off to rest; And her brown eyes will not open till the rosy morning light, When she’ll wake to find Kris Cringle caught her napping in the night.

Have you met her? Little Can’t-Wait: met the witchery of eyes Where the halo of affection in its angel beauty lies? While I toss her to the ceiling and caress her sunny hair, She is deep in speculation, seeing Santy ev’ry where.

Hearing of his sturdy reindeer, rapidly they speed along, We can barely catch the echo of his merry jest and song; Of the bountiful attractions, of the season and the night, Of the pleasures and the pastimes such as give a child delight.

Little Can’t-Wait as I chatter hangs enraptured on the tale, With an interest in Santy that was never known to fail. Whereupon I whisper gaily and receive a roguish glance, Here’s the story Kris will tell you if you give him half a chance.

“Have you heard how little Can’t-Wait, just a year ago to-day, Formed a clever plan, the mischief, and when twilight softly lay Over this fair scene around us, crept into a dainty nest, In the cosy chimney corner where the evening shadows rest.

There, upon the faintest jingle of my sleigh bells drawing nigh To triumphant watch my fingers pile the tiny stockings high; And so certain was the conquest that the elf was bound to make, I was downright sorry, darling, to the pretty picture break.

It was pleasant to be welcomed by a most enticing view, Of a dainty bit of muslin and a golden lock or two. As I crept up close and closer to the crimson curtained chair, Well, a secret’s none in telling, _some one_, slyly kissed her there.

When those baby eyes were blinking in the rosy morning light, They were just too late to see me as I bounded out of sight.” Little Can’t-Wait shyly dimples, firm this Christmas eve to keep, And to not be caught “_a-napping_,” even though she is asleep.

MAKE IT A PLEASURE.

Make it a pleasure, the task you would shun, Joy beyond measure will follow “well done!” There is no trouble that cannot be eased, Bliss will redouble when others are pleased.

Make it a pleasure to work while you may, Time is a treasure, the crown of to-day; Hard is the waiting with nothing to do, Stand not debating but carry things through.

Make it a pleasure to help people thrive, Man may not measure, he only may strive; There is no trouble that cannot be eased, Bliss will redouble when others are pleased.

IF WE HAD LIVED WHEN FIRST THE PILGRIMS CAME.

If we had lived, when first the Pilgrims came, Founding on a rock their future fame; Humbly would we celebrate the day Love alone can make care free and gay.

If we had lived when Freedom’s cause was young, Often would the heart be sorrow wrung; Yet when war and famine thinned our ranks Find its sweetest joy in giving thanks.

If we had lived, no light on either hand, Trusting, when we could not understand; Pressed by want and danger all the way Thankful would we then have been to-day.

MUMMA ’ANG ME ’TOCKING UP.

Mumma ’ang me ’tocking up, Want a yamb, a tilver tup, ’Orse, a tart, a dum, a s’ed An a nighty, nithe and wed. Me dus awsul want a dun Bang-a-banging, dus for fun; An a ’teamer dat will say Toot-a-toot, toot, duss iss way. Wite a ’etter, mumma dear, Wite it bid so he can hear ’Tanty Taws, be thure an ’top. Div me a whole baby s’op. All de doodies, oo ull know Yarf an kie, an soot, an blow; Want an ’oop, a joll, a s’ate, ’Ots and ’ote of sings to ate; Tanny, ’ugar, feenuts, jum Tell him dat he mustest tum. Weed it mumma, so to see If oo said it dus like me. It ull do iss time I dess, Ceps me want a pwetty dwess, Thure the ’tocking don’t forget Thign with love, from ’Ittle Pet.

OUR JOY IS MEASURED BY WHAT WE DO.

We bring to the Lord and we call it giving, It is merely paying a debt we owe. The life we from day to day are living Is broader, deeper, than man may know.

While striving to walk in the path of duty, The way may be rugged and yet be plain. A thought may be true, conceal its beauty, We bury a bliss and sigh in vain,

We work for the Lord, nor faint, nor falter, However perplexing the task may be; The promise is sure, it cannot alter, There’s strength and enough for you and me.

Consider the song the angels were singing That first glad Christmas the world ever knew. God needs the offering men are bringing Our joy is measured by what we do.

THANKSGIVING.

Be grateful, oh my soul, while blessings I recount, Although I may not hope to tell the full amount; Encompassed oftentimes by pain, and fear, and doubt, Whence, daily, comes the strength, I could not do without?

Be grateful, oh my soul, give thanks and be at peace, The night of grief shall pass, the din of strife shall cease. As there is not one heart its secret thoughts can hide, So I am not alone whatever may betide.

Be grateful, oh my soul, for gratitude is sweet, One sympathizing friend can make my joy complete. For gifts of life and love shall I not offer praise? Knowing every week has seven thanksgiving days.

TRANSMUTED.

Bright bloom the roses of the eventide, Roses whose parted petals never fall; Transmuted, they in living light, Vibrate responsive to the heart of man, And man to God.

CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

I like to watch the Christmas gifts, so gaily they go by, To win sweet words from sweeter lips, the love light to the eye. The mother’s face will beam with joy, the children dance with glee, When, as the evening closes in, we gather round the tree.

I like to watch the Christmas gifts, a father’s willing hands Are bearing swiftly homeward for he always understands Just what will give most pleasure to the hearts he longs to please, Although he may not bring them, either wealth, or power, or ease.

I like to watch the Christmas gifts, they gladly troop along, The plain, the proud, the practical, a merry, motley throng. It matters not how much they cost in money, none may miss, Giving at least one person some share of Christmas bliss.

WHAT HE WANTED.

“Mamma dear, I am so sleepy; will good Santy truly come With a bang-er-bang, a ’teamer, and a ball, a kite, a drum? I just awesul want a rainbow for whenever papa’s late, We could wave it from the window and he would not miss the gate. It is snowing, now I wonder if I ask Kris Kringle nice, Would he carve a baby city from a tiny bit of ice? Have a lot of ’tores, and turches, and a sun, and moon, and ’tars, With the dearest, sweetest station, for my toot-er-tooting cars?

Hang a ’tocking over yonder; clear the corner for the toys, Then just write a line to tell him I’m the very best of boys; And, oh mamma, when you write it, write it bid so he can hear, For he didn’t see our chimney as he hurried by last year; Oh, I should be dreadful sorry if to-night he passed again, So be careful, mamma darling, and be sure and write it plain. Pin it close beside the mantle where he cannot fail to see, Tissmas is so long in coming to a little chap like me.”

A HERO.

Every man’s a hero who dares And forbears. Every man’s a hero who will stand Faithful to the interests at hand. Where so e’er its starry folds we see Ours shall be the banner of the free; Gladly, boldly, battle for the right Day follows night.

BABY’S CHRISTMAS.

Baby’s face is in a glow, Baby’s eyes are bright Oh, would you the reason know? Santa comes to-night. Santa Claus of whom she’s heard, Heard but never met; Santa Claus--a magic word, With what joy beset.

Baby’s heart is beating fast, Beating with delight; “Here is Santa; come at last!” Is the darling right? Papa’s feet are at the door Papa’s arms are wide, Precious kisses, gems galore, Sweetest gifts provide.

Baby journeys off to rest, Cuddled close and warm In the arms she loves the best, Safe from every storm. And she has the strangest dream Seeing Santa stand, Chirping to his reindeer team, Trophies in his hand.

But the wondrous part is this:-- Santa’s face appears Just like one she loves to kiss, Wreathed in smiles and tears. Brightest visions come to bless Baby’s waking eyes, And her very looks confess All her glad surprise.

LOVELY MAY.

A RONDEAU.

O lovely May, throw thy soft spell On mountain proud and smiling dell, The world is kneeling at thy shrine-- Fond captive of thy moods divine,-- And nations rise thy charms to tell.

Where could we meet thy parallel? Who would thy witching arts repel? Who dares thy choicest gifts define, O lovely May?

And Nature?--Ah, she loves thee well, For Hope and Youth beside thee dwell. Thy sister months with thee combine As lesser streamlets swell the Rhine. ’Twere sin against thee to rebel, O lovely May.

THE CHIMES.

Hark to the voice of the joyful chimes Echoing on to fairer climes, Echoing on from hill to hill; “Peace on earth, good will, good will!”

Hark to the song of prayer, of praise, Speeding along the world’s highways, Echoing on from hill to hill: “Peace on earth, good will, good will!”

Hark to the melody sweet and clear Swiftly borne to the eager ear; Echoing on from hill to hill: “Peace on earth, good will, good will!”

Hark to the carol of life, of love, Wafted down from the realms above. Echoing on from hill to hill: “Peace on earth, good will, good will!”

WELL MAY I LAUGH.

Well may I laugh when the earth is aglow With bountiful gifts love alone can bestow; The manifold works from the Father’s own hand, But image the wealth of Immanuel’s land.

Well may I laugh when the sun is so bright, The mountains and valleys are bathing in light; The breezes of summer and winter’s shrill blast, All telling of greatness and glory at last.

Well may I laugh from pure gladness of heart, For in this fair world even I have a part; There is not a day but what something is done, Some good is accomplished, some victory won.

Well may I laugh, it is pleasant to live, To love and to labor, to gain and to give; While never a pleasure in life can compare, With pleasures eternal that all men may share.

SANTA’S COMING.

Listen darling, Santa’s coming, Hark the reindeer at the door Hear the carol he is humming, Sweeter, clearer, than before. Look what treasures he is bringing Dainty trifles, works of art, While the music of his singing Is as nectar to the heart.

Listen, darling, Santa’s coming! Hush! his feet are at the door; Hear the carol he is humming Now the busy day is o’er. Hurry, dearest, run to meet him, He must never wait outside When your merry face can greet him, Rosy cheeked and eager eyed.

Listen, darling, Santa’s coming! He is with us, at the door; Hear the carol he is humming, Bid him welcome home once more. Throw your loving arms around him, Call him by his own true name For a daughter’s love has found him Prince of Santas just the same.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

Let us be brave, to-day, to-day, And ne’er content to borrow, From lovely things that blithely stray Adown a fair to-morrow.

To-day is ours for what we will And victory is waiting, If we but press from hill to hill No jot of strength abating.

What though these willing hands are weak, And brightest paths are dreary; The heights will not be always bleak, The feet not always weary. Let us be glad, to-day, to-day, And ne’er content to borrow, From lovely things that blithely stray Adown a fair to-morrow.

COMMENDATION.

Shall we stand blindly commending person or place? Wide is the margin that lies between feeling and face, Life is steadily tending to joy or despair, What for the bliss of the future, will not a soul dare?

Daily we seek to move forward fast as we can Giving kind thought to the welfare of each brother man, Though the bright sunshine is hidden, clouds will uproll Bidding the glory of heaven transfigure the soul.

TRIED AND TRUE.

Loyal freemen, tried and true, Gallantly they stand, With the sacrifice in view Battling for our land. Battling for her highest good, Battling for her life; Even as their fathers stood Ready for the strife.

Where the smoke of conflict clung Like a dreary pall, There was work for old and young Work for one and all. Work that stirred the nation’s heart For the cannon’s boom Heralded the hero’s part In rebellion’s doom.

At the front ’mid shot and shell, Marching side by side; How the dead and wounded fell, Soldiers true and tried. Fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, Harkened to one voice, Freedom, speaking through her guns, Bidding men rejoice.

Listen to the widow’s moan, Children, too, must weep; What to them can e’er atone For the watch they keep? Far away by lonely graves Fragrant lilies bloom; There our starry banner waves O’er the soldier’s tomb.

* * * * *

But the living, down the years Steadily they come, Listen to the ringing cheers, To the throbbing drum. To the dirges wailing by On the willing breeze, How they swell and sob and die, Over such as these.

Clear above that martial tread, Sounds a bugle sweet, Telling how they fought and bled; Praising work complete. Hail! ye comrades, honor crowned, Moving on abreast, To the final camping ground And eternal rest.

SUNNY SKIES.

Who would have them always so? Clouds must come and tempests blow. We would sing a doleful tune Were there not a rose in June, See the willing drops come down Chatter! patter! till the brown Barren hill tops are as bright As the stars that gem the night.

NOT A DAY.

There is not a day, There is not an hour, But carries away Or offers us power. Which is the better The winner or loser? To fortune a debtor, Or fortune’s wise user?

To other men’s view, Though steadily striving, How little we do Unless we are thriving. The quaint artist Time Close student of Duty, Is a master sublime In painting soul beauty.

We may not improve On what he has shown us, But forward must move Or he will disown us. The higher we stand For prizes contending, The more rigid demand For delicate blending.

THINGS DONE.

Thing’s done, Behind us are cast, Find one To no purpose made fast. What we cannot undo May occasion regret; Traitor or true We never forget.

Things done Belong to the past, Out run By a momentum vast. It is well to recall The importance of each, Knowing they all Had lessons to teach.

Things done Are easily classed, May none Ever hold us aghast. Let us blessings impart As upward we press; Where beats the heart A foe to success?

THE WORD.

A lamp unto my feet Illuming life’s dull way, Though sternest tempests beat A lamp unto my feet, It makes my joy complete As sunbeams crown the day:-- A lamp unto my feet Illuming life’s dull way.