Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine Their varied gifts, I offer mine. PEAN. 1848. Now, joy and thanks forevermore ! More than we hoped in that dark time, When, faint with watching, few and worn, We saw no welcome day-star climb The cold gray pathway of the morn! O weary hours! O night of years ! How jeered the scoffing crowd behind, As, one by one, the true and kind Fell fainting in our path of pain They died—their brave hearts breaking slowBut, self-forgetful to the last, In words of cheer and bugle blow Their breath upon the darkness passed. A mighty host, on either hand, Stood waiting for the dawn of day To crush like reeds our feeble band; The morn has come--and where are they? Troop after troop their line forsakes ; Like mist before the growing light, As unto these repentant ones Of song, and praise, and grateful thanks. Sound for the onset!-Blast on blast! O, prisoners in your house of pain, Above the tyrant's pride of power, Awake! awake! my Father-land! Wake, dwellers where the day expires! TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY, GONE to thy Heavenly Father's rest! Gentlest of spirits!-not for thee Our tears are shed, our sighs are given: When Autumn's sun is downward going But woe for us! who linger still With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, And minds less steadfast to the will Of Him whose every work is holy. For not like thine, is crucified Not warm like thine, but cold and slow, Darkly upon our struggling way The storm of human hate is sweeping; Our watch amidst the darkness keeping, And constant in the hour of trial, In meekness and in self-denial. Oh! for that spirit, meek and mild, Yet faithful to its trust remaining. From scourge and chain the hunted slave! Even where the fires of Hate were burning, Th' unquailing eye of innocence Alone upon th' oppressor turning! O loved of thousands! to thy grave, Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee The poor man and the rescued slave Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee; And grateful tears, like summer rain, Quickened its dying grass again! And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine, Shall come the outcast and the lowly, Of gentle deeds and words of thine Recalling memories sweet and holy! Oh! for the death the righteous die! With holier, tenderer beauty shining; As if that pure and blessed light, TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN. 1846. Is this thy voice, whose treble notes of fear Hadst thou no fear, that, ere long, doubling back, Cold, calm and proud, in the teeth o' the Senate flung, O'er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan, Like Satan's triumph at the fall of man? How stood'st thou then, thy feet on Freedom planting, And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, Whence all could see, through the south windows slanting, Crimson as blood, the beams of that Lone Star ! |