72. Morning's Music.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
In the low valley; echoing far and wide,
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bee; the linnet's lay of love;
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
Jas. Beattie, Scotland, 1735-1803.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,—
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Walter Scott, Scotland, 1771-1832.
Amid the distant vales she tarried long,
But she hath come, oh joy! for I have heard
Her many-chorded harp the livelong day,
Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late,
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came
The wild north wind, careering like a steed
Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth
Into the forest, and its poiséd leaves
Are platformed for the zephyr's dancing feet.
Under its green pavilions she hath reared
Most beautiful things; the Spring's pale orphans lie
Sheltered upon her breast; the bird's loud song
At morn outsoars his pinion; and when waves
Put on night's silver harness, the still air
Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized
Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed
All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven,
And all that hail its smile. Her ministry
Is typical of love. She hath disdained
No gentle office, but doth bend to twine
The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart
The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass
Unmindful of the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift
The trodden weed; and when the lowlier children
Faint by the way-side, like worn passengers,
She is a gentle mother, all night long
Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews.
The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the days
Are dowered with her beauty.
Anna Drinker (Edith May), Penn.
It was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood,
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seemed
In silent contemplation to adore
Its maker. Now and then the aged leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think of his end.
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought,
Conversing with herself. Vesper looked forth
From out western hermitage, and smiled;
And up the East, unclouded, rode the moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense,
As if she saw some wonder working there.
Robt. Pollok, England, 1799-1827.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea and music in its roar.
I love not man the less but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal
Lord Byron, England, 1788-1824.
The clouds which rise with thunder, slake
Our thirsty souls with rain;
The blow most dreaded falls to break
From off our limbs a chain;
And wrongs of man to man but make
The love of God more plain;
As through the shadowy lens of even,
The eye looks farthest into heaven,
On gleams of star and depths of blue
The glaring sunshine never knew.
J. G. Whittier, Mass., 1808
78. The Ship of State.
Thou, too, sail on, O ship of Statel
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging, breathless, on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rung, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, fear not to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee;
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,-are all with thee!
H. W. Longfellow, Maine, 1807-.
When on the fragrant sandal-tree
The woodman's ax descends,
And she who bloomed so beauteously
Beneath the keen stroke bends, .
E'en on the edge that brought her death,
Dying, she breathes her sweetest breath,
As if to token in her fall
"Peace to her foes and love to all!"
How hardly man this lesson learns,
To smile, and bless the hand that spurns;
To see the blow and feel the pain,
But render only love again!
This spirit ne'er was given on earth;
One had it,-He of heavenly birth;
Reviled, rejected, and betrayed,
No curse he breathed, no plaint He made,
But when in death's deep pang He sighed,
Prayed for His murderers and died.
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