Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: About and about through the intricate channels that flow Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, Farewell, my lord Sun! The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run "Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh grass stir; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one. How still the plains of the waters be! The tide is in his ecstasy; The tide is at its highest height: And it is night. And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn. SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE Out of the hills of Habersham. I hurry amain to reach the plain, All down the hills of Habersham, The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, High o'er the hills of Habersham, Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, And oft in the hills of Habersham, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, Made lures with the lights of streaming stone But oh, not the hills of Habersham, Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, Calls through the valleys of Hall. Compare with the last poem above: Tennyson's Brook; Southey's The Cataract of Lodore; Hayne's Meadow Brook. 6. Stephen C. Foster (1826-1864) was the author of the popular Old Folks at Home and My Old Kentucky Home. All de world am sad and dreary, Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home! All round de little farm I wandered Den many happy days I squandered, When I was playing wid my brudder Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! One little hut among de bushes, Still sadly to my memory rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming, All de world am sad and dreary, Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 7. Alice Cary (1820-1871) composed some beautiful lyrics. Horace Greeley said of her: "I do not believe that she ever wrote one line that she did not believe to be true. She concentrated all her powers and energies on the task of making truth more palpable and good, more acceptable to hungry waiting souls." BALDER'S WIFE Her casement like a watchful eye From the face of the wall looks down, And wearily rocking to and fro, But let her sing what tune she may, To the moan of the willow water. Like some bright honey-hearted rose She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close The livelong night she does not stir, But keeps at her casement lorn, And the skirts of the darkness shine with her It slips and slides and dies away To the moan of the willow water. And there, within that one-eyed tower, To the moan of the willow water. 8. Phoebe Cary (1824-1871), the younger sister of Alice, is remembered for the familiar hymn which follows. NEARER HOME One sweetly solemn thought I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before; |