Songs and hymns for common life

Front matter

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Index

Ancient Sabbath School . . . . 128

Anglo-Saxon Whittling Song . . . 193 Battle of the Wilderness .... 44

Bewildered Prophet 90

Black Valley Railroad . . . . 106 Baptismal Hymn . . . . . .127

Banishment of Cupid 247

Boston Yankee Doodle .... 249 Caesar and Christ ..... 42

Christian Old Age 101

Christmas Carols .... 143 and 144 Centennial Celebration at Tolland, Conn. . 158 Church of Old Windsor, Conn,, 1630-1880 173 Change of the Moon 212

Vlll INDEX.

Crinoline

China and America

. 252

Dedication of School House

. 120

Dedication of Hitchcock Library Hall

Dedication of a City Hall

. 221

Death in our Home ....

Evening .....

Earth's Wonders ....

Evening at Cape Ann

Easter Hymns .....

138-142

First Thanksgiving, 1621

First Psalm

Forefathers' Day

. 116

God

Great City at Midnight

God in the Garden

. 146

Golden Weddings ....

197-207

Game of Courtesy

. 248

House by the Sea ....

Heaven is far and Earth is near

Hymn for Peace ....

Hymns for Freedom

I dwell among mine own people

6 7

INDEX.

Installation at Old South,

—Hymn

Jerusalem

Jubilate Deo

Jackson Falls, N. H., and Old Dog Spring-

Matter or Spirit .

Mountain Spring

.

Midnight Train

Mystery of the Stars

My Little Playmate

.

My Mother's Grave .

.

Northeaster .

Nellie

New Settlements .

. 145

Nocturn

Old Meeting-House

. 32

Omniscience

.

Our Native Land

. 123

Our Land

.

Our Fathers

. 133

Open Fire

.

Plymouth and the Bay

. " 82

Pilgrim Father, Reconstructed .

Psalm VIII.

. 134

X INDEX.

Pride of Ancestry ....

Rest of Waking

Ripe for Heaven ....

Revolutionary Tea ....

. 214

Saintly Women ....

Snow Storm .....

. 68

Song for May Day ....

Safety of the State ....

. 118

Sabbath School Celebration

Song for Freedom ....

. 132

Song of the Redeemed

Still Small Voice

. 152

Silver Wedding ....

. 232

Summer Rest .....

Toil and Rest .....

Two Songs

"Tell About" . . . .

They that Watch for the Morning

The Unknown Land .

Thanksgiving .....

Time for Thanksgiving

. 109

The Good Man's Death .

Torn Battle Flags . . . .

. 153

The Old Chestnut Tree .

INDEX. XI

The River of God . . . . .237

4 ' Thou Bethlehem" .... 243

To Whom it may Concern . . . .253

Vanished Faces 72

Who saw the Star 55

Winter Night 61

When I first went down to Yale . . 187

Zion's Glory 124

SONGS AND HYMNS

GOD.

This Being, great and high ; This Name majestic sounding o'er the earth : Who thought this thought, gave this conception birth.

Beneath the vaulted sky?

Who dreamed this wondrous dream, Of ONE, that binds all worlds about his throne, And claims dominion for Himself alone,

Farther than light can gleani,-^-

Hiding in realms of air, Making the unknown heavens his shining home, Or down th' abyss, deeper than thought can roam, .

Dwelling in mystery there, —

So holy, good and just, That the unfallen angels, great in might, Yeil their pure faces at the dazzling sight,

And bow them to the dust, —

GOD.

Who gave this thought its birth ? Who by his searching found out such a God, And sent the marvellous story far abroad,

Over our fallen earth?

The deep and sounding sea, Rolling forever on its restless track, From its mysterious caverns thunders back —

This thought came not from me.

No bird, on sweeping wing, Has traced its source in all her airy round : No vulture's eye the hidden place has found,

Or known its secret spring.

Old empires in their might, With kings in proud succession on their thrones, Bowed down in awe to senseless stocks and stones,

In one long pagan night.

Egypt, with all her lore, Lifting her ponderous pillars to the sky, Bent to the ox in low stupidity,

Worshipped, — and knew no more.

Beneath the eastern sun, Where Tigris hastes to join her sister stream, Assyria sat and dreamed her mighty dream,

Till her full race was run ;

But not, in all her thought, Did God, the Unseen Ruler, find a place ; Nebo and Bel, and all that hideous race,

Were the poor gods she sought.

GOD. 3

Tyre, with her white- winged fleets, Nestled in beauty by the Central sea, Where snowy Hermon, rising grand and free,

Looked on her busy streets, —

Worshipped the Queen of Night, The foul Astarte, with her rites profane, Or bowed beneath old Moloch's bloody reign,

And fed his grim delight.

And Greece, the young and fair, Brightest of nations ; with her keen- eyed thought, In all her subtle dreamings, vainly sought

This highest thought to share;

Wondering and overawed, Searching for something which she could not find, Builded her altar, with bewildered mind,

To one — the Unknown God.

This Being, great and high ; This Name majestic sounding o'er the earth, Who thought this thought, gave this conception birth,

Beneath the vaulted sky?

" In Judah God was known : "

While yet the earth lay wrapt in pagan night, O'er these rough hills and round fair Salem's height,

A heavenly glory shone.

" In Zion was His place : "

With Israel's marshalled hosts His name was great : He sat a Monarch, throned in holy state,

Amid his chosen race.

GOD.

" Lift up your heads, ye gates " ! The God, whose power the highest heaven fills, Comes to His temple, built on Zion's hills ;

" The King of glory waits " I

" Lift up your heads, ye gates ! " And be ye lift, ye everlasting doors " ! The Monarch comes to tread your hallowed floors,

" The King of Glory waits" !

" Who is this King of Glory" ?

And heaven answers, with its tides of song, " The Lord of Hosts — the Lord in battle strong,

" He is the King of Glory. "

On through the circling years, While ancient empires hasted to decay, And the broad lands in pagan darkness lay,

Wrapt in their gloomy fears, —

This light on Zion shone : It sparkled in her glancing mountain rills, It bathed in splendor Judah's rugged hills,

And rested there alone, —

Till the set time was come : Till angels sang our Great Messiah's birth : Then this great Name went forth to fill the earth

And make the world its home.

Whence did this thought arise ? Guide us, ye sophists, to its unknown source Lead us along to trace its hidden course,

Ye knowing ones and wise.

THE NORTH-EASTER. t

This Being, great and high ; This Name majestic sounding through the earth ; Who thought this thought, gave this conception birth,

Beneath the vaulted sky ?

THE NORTH-EASTER.

" Then comes with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind."— Longfellow.

Even now the heralds tell it,

The gloomy omens say, This mighty storm- wind, from afar,

Is on its sounding way.

There is moaning through the forest ;

The restless clouds hang low ; They scud along the mountain sides,

Surcharged with wind and snow.

House well the shivering cattle,

And fold the bleating sheep, And guard the yawning crevices,

Where icy currents creep : Heap high the blazing hearth- stone,

And close the shutters tight, The tempest, in its furious march,

Will break on us to-night.

THE NORTH-EASTER.

Now gather round the fireside,

And watch its dreamy glow ; And hark ! — upon the window pane

The rustle of the snow !

Mid the fast gathering darkness,

Hear the strange, mournful wail, The wild song which the tempest sings,

The anthem of the gale.

O'er high and shaggy mountains,

By village, field and dell ; Around the scattered cottages

Where lonely toilers dwell ; Far, far away, this wailing song

Through all the land is heard ; And many a fancy wakes to-night,

And many a heart is stirred.

We see, enwrapt in vision,

The grand and awful form Of ONE, who in the darkness hides,

And rides upon the storm : And now He moves in majesty ;

His chariot is the cloud, And at the tumult of his march,

The stoutest heart is bowed.

But oh ! the toiling mariner,

Tossed helpless on the deep ;

Drifting where mountain billows break Along the rocky steep.

THE NORTH-EASTER.

In vain his sad, despairing cry, In this tumultuous hour,

The sea is roaring for its prey, And ready to devour.

Some mother watches by the fire,

In cottage, far away, And dreaming of her sailor boy,

Hums the old cradle lay : Ah, well for her! — she cannot hear

This far- resounding roar, Nor see the wild work going on

Along the savage shore.

God help the lonely wanderer !

Bewildered in the storm ; Struggling along his blinded path

With bowed and shivering form : Lost in the howling darkness,

How can his heart be bold?

For who jan fight the winds of night,

Or stand against the cold?

We sit and think of one who sleeps

In her sweet wood- land grave, And hears no more the angry roar

Where earth-born tempests rave: But human hearts are poor and weak,

And feel a chilling dread, At the wild uproar of the storm

Around her lonely bed.

MATTER OR SPIRIT.

Open the door- way softly,

And look out on the world : See the mad tempest sweeping by,

Its mighty wings unfurled : Then bless the bounteous Giver

For the fireside's genial glow ; For the roof that gives thee shelter

From storm and cold and snow.

This wind that raves so madly,

Howling with fiendish will, Has yet the artist's gentle touch,

The sculptor's cunning skill : And when the morn comes breaking,

O'er all the world shall stand Pure forms of chiselled beauty,

Wrought by her magic hand.

MATTER OR SPIRIT.

They tell me that our modern lore, Sounding through nature to the core, Transcends all wisdom known before :

That ancient myth and faith are dead ; That henceforth, it shall rest unread What the old bards and prophets said.

They tell me, they alone are wise, Who walk by their own searching eyes, And put no trust in mysteries :

MATTER OR SPIRIT.

Who follow -what the mind can know, In these material fields below, And let the unseen wonders go :

Who ply the chemist's subtle trade,

And think, by its most potent aid,

To tell how first the worlds were made ;

Or, skirting the primeval morn, How, from the ancient night forlorn, Out of dead matter, life was born.

I urge the cravings of the soul, Which mounts above this earthly pole, And ranges in the boundless whole ;

Which rising heavenward, leaps and sings, Soaring on swift ethereal wings, Beyond these low and earth-born things ;

Which moves in glory with the stars, Far from the tumult and the jars Of Earth, and her perplexing wars.

With such persuasions as I can, I urge that in the general plan Nature is nothing without Man :

These earthly fields, so large and fair ; The orbs, that move in upper air ; The bodies, which our Spirits wear ;

Are all to higher ends designed, And their great meaning only find, As handmaids of the deathless Mind.

These arching heavens and rolling earth, Cut loose from souls, of godlike birth, With all their pomp, are nothing worth.

Why talk of souls ? — they make reply, Who knows of souls that never die, But pass immortal to the sky?

What is the soul? — a subtle strain Of music, issuing from the brain, A joyous or a sad refrain ;

This harp kind nature's touch may wake,

But who that task will undertake,

When once its trembling strings shall break?

The body, with its wondrous whole, Wheel within wheel, in mystic roll, Emits that wonder called the soul.

Nay, give this sweeping logic, pause ; How dost thou study Nature's laws? Can the effect control the cause?

The floating fragrance, which the flower Emits in summer's sunny hour, Does it react with kingly power ?

Can music, when its notes are rung, And once on wandering breezes flung, Control the harp from which it sprung?

Borne on soft wings, the mellow strain Dies out amid the wind and rain ; It goes, but comes not back again.

So, if the soul its being draws From earthly and organic laws, Still flowing outward from its cause,

As light comes streaming from the sun, Or brooklets from the mountains run ; How are its works of wonder done?

The soul sits sovereign on a throne : It has an empire all its own, "Where, by its will, it rules alone.

In busy day, and silent night, It grapples, with a giant's might, The august problems of the right.

The soul may sing with angel choirs, Even while the quivering frame expires, Enwrap t in raging martyr- fires.

It bends the body to its will, Bids the wild rebel lusts, be still ; Bids the whole man its tasks fulfil.

It sets itself what task it please,

To weigh the stars, or sound the seas,

And the poor brain minds its decrees.

Is this the efflux of a brain, Dropping like falling drops of rain, Or as the wheat- stalk sheds the grain?

But the old voice comes back to me : TelL if thou hast the power to see, How in the acorn dwells the tree ?

Around thy pathway, every day, Ten thousand organisms play, Each in its own mysterious way.

Unfold that strange and subtle power, Which works in silence, hour by hour, To weave the splendor of the flower,

How are those golden fruits begun, Which, when the summer days are done, Hang mellow in the autumn sun?

Or can thy daring thought aspire, To track that darting throb of fire, Which leaps along the electric wire?

Then by what wisdom art thou taught,

When sense, and nerve, and brain have wrought,

To prove the product is not thought?

Nay, nay, this logic does not suit : We nourish Nature, at the root, And wait, in patience, for the fruit.

We set our chosen tree with care, To catch the sun, the rain, the air, And bide what fruitage it shall bear.

So now, to make your logic plain,

Go feed your child with milk and grain,

And wait the efflux of the brain.

Leave what you call the soul, alone : Tis a resultant, all unknown, Until the wonder shall be grown.

Keep the young nursling well apart

From books and every learned art,

And see what thoughts from flesh will start.

Go now, all free and unconfined, And by this food of earthly kind, Build us a Newton's towering mind.

You dare not follow by your rule ; You put the unseen soul to school, Or let the child grow up a fool.

Since earth was born, or time began, None ever acted on the plan That the frail body was the man.

Sages, from age to age, have wrought Upon an unseen soul, and sought How best to wake its latent thought.

For wrapt in slumbering infancy, All ready to take wings and fly Its wondrous intuitions lie.

Thoughts which no sense could e'er impart, And strange emotions of the heart Out of this hidden world shall start.

Its subtle food wastes not away, But while all earthly stores decay Its garners grow from day to day.

All treasured wisdom of the past, All that the ages have amassed, Becomes its heritage at last.

But if you wish — call man a brute : Pray tell us now what wondrous fruit Will spring and grow from such a root ?

Suppose you victor in this chase : For you and me, how stands the case? And what good cometh to the race?

You tell us that you seek for light, That day is better than the night, That safety always dwells with right.

You search for truth, what way you can, For truth, in nature's boundless plan, Will work the glory of the man.

Fair words — but words for shame and tears, If life, with all its hopes and fears, Ends with these transitory years.

Yea what is truth ? — go ask the flocks, That sleep amid the hillside rocks : Go ask the dull contented ox ;

Truth is for them, as well as you, If, when the earthly life is through, Dark night forever shuts the view.

O prate not with these hollow sounds ; Your words are only jingling rounds, If man leaps not these mortal bounds.

There is no truth — there is no right : And night is day, and day is night, If from beyond there comes no light.

Yea, bind my conscience, if you can, Upon this low material plan ; What law or rule am I to scan ?

If I do right — I meet the curse ; If I do wrong, 'tis hardly worse ; The payman holds an empty purse.

Come let us eat, while blood runs high, Aud drink, as the swift moments fly, For on the morrow we shall die.

Yea, let us haste to seize our prey, In the dark night, when best we may, And hide us in our dens by day.

And from the conscience, let us clear

That idle rubbish of a fear

Lest some great judgment- day be near.

"Why should we walk beneath that dread, While the fierce lion makes his bed In peace — if only he be fed ?

O man ! abate this foolish pride : Look up, the starry heavens are wide, And mystery dwells on every side.

Small reach has all thy boasted lore : If false — how poor and mean the store ! If true — still meaner than before !

Why walk abroad in pomp and show? We see how far your search can go ; We know how little you can know.

That ancient Book, which you despise,

Grows doubly precious in our eyes,

The more these low- browed systems rise.

Tis a dark corner where you dwell,

Like some old hermit in his cell,

With head bowed down, his beads to tell.

'Tis a broad universe of light The Bible opens to our sight, Where winds are free, and stars are bright.

We boast in what that record saith, That Man is God's immortal breath, Born for the years that know no death.

We joy in David's lofty page, Still sounding on from age to age, Though kings combine, and heathen rage ;

Which saw the coming ages, when

God's kingdom should come down to men.

And our poor sinning, suffering race, Still has in God its hiding-place, And wears a glory on its face.

Leave the poor pilgrim, when he dies, The sweet hope that his soul shall rise To join the armies of the skies ;

That when the dust returns to dust, The mortal shall give back its trust, To go and dwell among the just ; 2

That friends, long parted, shall await His coming at the heavenly gate, And set him with the good and great.

In these rough pathways, while we plod, Let us believe the Son of God Along these earthly ways has trod ;

That He from highest heaven came down, With love, unchecked by earthly frown, Our manhood with his own to crown.

Let us believe that Jesus died To take away our sin and pride, And set us with the sanctified ;

That on the morning of that day, "When the great stone was rolled away, The grave was thwarted of its prey ;

That from the mountain's holy height, He vanished from our mortal sight, And hid himself in heaven's own light.

Call this delusion, if you will ; It fills a place, earth cannot fill, And sheds o'er man a glory still.

Rise from the dust and walk abroad ; Bow down, with wonder over-awed, And ask for wisdom from your God.

THE REST OF WAKING. 19

THE REST OF WAKING.

I wandered helpless in the land of sleep,

In a wild tangled wilderness of dreaming, Where toiling hard some beaten path to keep,

All hope went out in vague and fitful gleaming ; It was a dark, strange, phantom land of fear,

A land whose sights and sounds were full of sorrow, Each wandering voice was hateful to the ear,

And no fixed guiding light the soul could borrow.

All toil was nought — in vain each laboring groan,

In vain all art and skill and bold endeavor, Condemned like Sisyphus to roll the stone,

Which slipped the grasp, and still rolled back forever : As some poor hare, caught in the hunter's net,

Frenzied with fear, now struggling, now despairing, Finds with each strain the coil more firmly set, —

Such was the sum of all my toilsome daring.

And demons foul, in every hideous form,

Thronged round me, half in twilight shadows hiding, Creatures, that find their pastime in the storm,

Like sea-birds on the gloomy tempest riding. But such wild slumber must, perforce, have end ;

Upon this dark a dawn must needs come breaking j Some swelling horror proves the sleeper's friend,

By sharp excess of agony awaking.

20 THE REST OF WAKING.

What blissful rest to waken from such sleep,

From this long war of strange chaotic dreaming, And find a midnight stillness calm and deep,

And the soft moonlight through the casement streaming; To hear no discord moving on the air ;

The full- orbed moon in peaceful splendor riding ; To see the stars shine down on landscapes fair,

And know that God's strong hand the world is guiding!

night so calm, so beautiful and still !

O skies so deep and blue where stars are twinkling ! No voice or sound is heard, save from yon hill

The pebbly brook sends out its silvery tinkling. Luxurious rest ! — to sit and dream and gaze,

And slake the spirit at this fount of healing ; The earth enrobed in moonlight's magic haze,

That dreamy veil, half- hiding, half- revealing.

And when death's sleep has sealed our weary eyes,

And on the vision Heaven's glad morn is breaking, When all the unknown wonders of the skies

Burst on the soul from earth-born dreams awaking, Will fairer worlds in holier beauty drest,

Will softer landscapes on the sight come beaming, Than this calm scene of stillness and of rest,

To one who wakes from wild tumultuous dreaming?

GREAT PAN IS DEAD.

I. In dim and shadowy ages long gone by

This sad and moaning cry Went o'er the sunny Grecian lands : By hill and dell and ocean sands, Through many a flowery vale, Echoed the lowly wail ; The mountain winds took up the tearful tale ; The shepherds ran, the mournful news to tell, And maidens left their pitchers at the well : On, on the message sped, Great Pan is dead !

II

This was Arcadia's rural god : And in her mountain cots, the faith was sweet, That Pan along her rocky pathways trod, And made her whispering woods his fond retreat. It pleased the shepherd fancy day by day, That Pan looked on to see the young lambs play ; To watch the white flocks on the grassy glade, Or safely sleeping in the noontide shade : To him the shepherds piped their songs, Told him their loves, and griefs, and wrongs ; And blushing maidens, without fear, Whispered their hopes and sorrows in his ear : And now the glory of the earth has fled, Great Pan is dead !

III. These were but simple children of the sun

Living their roving life among the hills, Watching the stars their nightly circuits run,

Tracking the wild paths of the mountain rills : Little they knew of all that lay behind

Those rocky heights that girded in their land ; How little of that One Eternal Mind

Who holds the earth and stars in his right hand. Pan was to them the wonder of the skies ;

He wove the robes of beauty round the earth ; Of him they talked with shining, happy eyes,

Their god of festive joy and song and mirth : And now they sit bowed down in grief and dread, Great Pan is dead !

IV. Great Pan is dead !

In low and mournful converse still they said, And the whole earth sounds hollow to our tread :

How can the silly lambkins play? How can the birds pour forth their morning lay, To usher in another weary day ?

Our oaten reeds are laid aside,

The fields have lost their flowery pride, And all is loneliness, since Pan has died. We sleep and wake, we wake and sleep,

What is the fruit of all our toil ? Slowly the years around us creep,

And death stands waiting for his spoil : Our days are filled with fear and care and strife, There is no charm to sweeten human life :

Our dull and dismal rounds we tread ; But the bright heavens have lost their ancient light ' f O'er all the earth falls down a withering blight ; Great Pan is dead!

V

The rolling centuries move across the stage, And we are children of a later age. The same sun gives us light, The same stars sparkle in the heavenly height, The same fair moon makes beautiful our night ;

The olden thoughts are still at play : We walk beneath the same mysterious skies, And know that death is watching for his prey, While we gaze onward with inquiring eyes :

We have no might or power Against the forces that around us roll j God is our strength — our everlasting tower, The only refuge for the weary soul.

VI

But hark ! — p strange, strange voice, Sounding abroad from Learning's ancient halls, An atheist voice — which boldly to us calls,

There is no God — and let the earth rejoice t The old beliefs have had their little day, And now let wisdom hold her cheerful sway.

Lend your inquiring glance : Come see the star- dust in its mystic dance; See the great planets form and wheel, by chance. The only god that guides their course,

And speeds them on their burning way, Is that impersonated force,

Which asks no worship — will not hear you pray. Search the primeval morn ; See how all life from death was born ;

And how, through woe and pain, All life goes back to death again. What! do you sit with sad and drooping head? That Hebrew God whom you have feared, is dead. There is no God — so doff your robes of sadness, And let your days resound with joy and gladness.