Poems

Front matter

BY

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

DURAND, HUNTINGTON, DARLEY, DUGGAN, ROTHERMEL, ETC.

Dedication

N.

R.

The flowers of romance that I cherished, Around me lie withered and dead; The stars of my youth’s shining heaven, Were but meteors whose brightness misled; And the day-dreams of life’s vernal morning, Like the mists of the morning have fled.

The Battle of Life

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

There are countless fields the green earth o’er, Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore; Where hostile ranks in their grim array, With the battle’s smoke have obscured the day; Where hate was stamped on each rigid face As foe met foe in the death embrace; Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose, Till the heart of the listener with horror froze, And the wide expanse of the crimsoned plain Was piled with its heaps of uncounted slain:— But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife, Is that which is waged in the Battle of Life.

The hero that wars on the tented field, With his shining sword and his burnished shield, Goes not alone with his faithful brand, Friends and comrades around him stand; The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh, To join in the shock of the coming fray,

And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe, Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow; And he bears his part in that conflict dire, With an arm all nerve, and a heart all fire. What though he fall! at the battle’s close, In the flush of the victory won, he goes, With martial music and waving plume, From a field of fame to a laurelled tomb. But the hero that wars in the Battle of Life, Must stand alone in the fearful strife; Alone in his weakness or strength must go, Hero or craven to meet the foe; He may not fly,—on that fated field, He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield. Warrior who com’st to this battle now, With a careless step and a thoughtless brow, As if the field were already won; Pause, and gird all thy armor on. Myriads have come to this battle-ground, With a valiant arm and a name renowned, And have fallen vanquished, to rise no more, Ere the sun was set, or the day half o’er.

Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will, An ardent soul that no blast can chill;

Thy shield of Faith hast thou tried and proved; Canst thou say to the mountain—“Be thou moved;” In thy hand does the sword of truth flame bright; Is thy banner emblazoned—“For God and the Right;” In the might of prayer, dost thou strive and plead? Never had warrior greater need. Unseen foes in thy pathway hide; Thou art encompassed on every side. There Pleasure waits, with her syren train, Her poison flowers and her hidden chain; Hope, with her Dead Sea fruits, is there; Sin is spreading her gilded snare; Flattery courts, with her hollow smiles; Passion with silvery tone beguiles; Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave: Trust not too deeply, they may deceive. Disease with a ruthless hand would smite, And Care spread o’er thee a with’ring blight; Hate and Envy, with visage black, And the serpent Slander are on thy track; Guilt and Falsehood, Remorse and Pride, Doubt and Despair in thy pathway glide; Haggard Want, in her demon joy, Waits to degrade thee and then destroy; Palsied Age in the distance lies, And watches his victim with rayless eyes;

And Death, the insatiate, is hovering near, To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest dear. No skill may avail, and no ambush hide; In the open field must the champion bide, And face to face, and hand to hand, Alone in his valor confront that band. In war with these phantoms that gird him round, No limbs dissevered may strew the ground; No blood may flow, and no mortal ear The groans of the wounded heart may hear, As it struggles and writhes in their dread control, As the iron enters the riven soul. But the youthful form grows wasted and weak, And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek; The brow is furrowed, but not with years; The eye is dimmed with its secret tears, And streaked with white is the raven hair: These are the tokens of conflict there.

The battle is over; the hero goes, Scarred and worn, to his last repose. He has won the day, he has conquered Doom, He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb. For the victor’s glory no voices plead, Fame has no echo, and earth no meed.

But the guardian angels are hovering near; They have watched unseen o’er the conflict here, And they bear him now, on their wings away, To a realm of peace,—to a cloudless day. Ended now is the earthly strife, And his brow is crowned with the Crown of Life.

Aspiration

N.

The planted seed consigned to common earth, Disdains to moulder with the baser clay; But rises up to meet the light of day, Spreads all its leaves, and flowers, and tendrils forth; And, bathed and ripened in the genial ray, Pours out its perfume on the wandering gales, Till in that fragrant breath its life exhales. So this immortal germ within my breast Would strive to pierce the dull, dark clod of sense, With aspirations wingéd and intense; Would so stretch upward, in its tireless quest, To meet the Central Soul, its source, its rest; So in the fragrance of the immortal flower, High thoughts and noble deeds, its life it would outpour.

A Thought by the Sea-Shore

A THOUGHT BY THE SEA-SHORE.

“Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.”

Bury me by the sea, When on my heart the hand of Death is press’d. If the soul lingers ere she join the bless’d, And haunts awhile her clay, Then ’mid the forest shades I would not lie, For the green leaves, like me, would droop and die.

Nor ’mid the homes of men, The haunts of busy life, would I be laid: There ever was I lone, and my vexed shade Would sleep unquiet then: The surging tide of life might overwhelm The shadowy boundaries of the silent realm.

No sculptured marble pile, To bear my name, be reared upon my breast,— Beneath its weight my free soul would not rest: But let the blue sky smile,

The changeless stars look lovingly on me, And let me sleep beside this sounding sea—

This ever-beating heart Of the great Universe; here would the soul Plume her soiled pinions for the final goal, Ere she should thence depart,— Here would she fit her for the high abode,— Here, by the sea, she would be nearer God.

I feel His presence now, Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand And watch beside thee on the sparkling sand, Thy crested billows bow; And, as thy solemn chant swells through the air, My spirit, awed, joins in thy ceaseless prayer.

Life’s fitful fever o’er, Here then would I repose, majestic sea; E’en now faint glimpses of eternity Come o’er me on thy shore: My thoughts from thee to highest themes are given, As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven.

On the Death of Mrs. N. P. Willis

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. N. P. WILLIS.

In life’s freshness, and its fulness,— In thy womanhood’s young bloom, While thy brow was all unclouded With a darkening ray of gloom,— The Angel Death hath said to thee, “Thy Father calls thee home.”

And, as fades some lovely vision In the morning’s gathering light, Or as sinks some unsphered radiance From the starry crown of night, Or as dies some burst of music,— Thou hast vanished from our sight.

Far across the foaming waters, From the country of thy birth, From thy childhood’s friends and memories, From thy father’s silent hearth, A strange soil unveils its bosom, And must clasp thee, earth to earth.

But the soft Spring sky bends o’er thee, As thou goest to thy rest, And Mount Auburn’s green recesses Soon in beauty will be drest; And with waving leaves and blossoms, Welcome in their lovely guest.

And when Summer all her glory O’er that hallowed scene shall shed, Then shall come the loved and living, With hushed voice and noiseless tread; And with tears bedew the flowers, In that city of the dead.

There, where winds sigh through the pine trees, Where the silver water flows; Where the pale stars keep their vigils, And the genial sunlight glows, Oh, how calm will be thy slumber! How I envy thy repose!

There, young mother,—with thy nursling Safely pillowed on thy heart, Safely shielded from the tempest, From the poison and the dart,— Ye will fade away together, As the violets depart.

But not thus, oh gentle stranger, Shall thy loved remembrance flee; In the hearts where thou wast cherished, The sweet memories of thee, Like the evergreens above thee. Fresh and beautiful shall be.

On Seeing the Ivory Statue of Christ

T.

The enthusiast brooding in his cell apart O’er the sad image of the Crucified,— The drooping head, closed lips and piercéd side,— A holy vision fills his raptured heart; With heavenly power inspired, his unskilled arm Shapes the rude block to this transcendent form. Oh Son of God! thus, ever thus, would I Dwell on the loveliness enshrined in Thee; The lofty faith, the sweet humility; The boundless love, the love that could not die. And as the sculptor, with thy glory warm, Gave to this chiselled ivory thy fair form, So would my spirit, in thy thought divine, Grow to a semblance, fair as this, of Thine.

On a Picture of Harvey Birch

ON A PICTURE OF HARVEY BIRCH.

I know not if thy noble worth My country’s annals claim, For in her brief, bright history I have not read thy name.

I know not if thou e’er didst live; Save in the vivid thought Of him who chronicled thy life, With silent suffering fraught.

Yet, in thy history I see Full many a great soul’s lot; Who joins that martyr-army’s ranks, That the world knoweth not;—

Who cannot weep “melodious tears,” For fame or sympathy; But who, in silence, bear their doom, To suffer and to die;—

For whom no poet’s harp is struck, No laurel wreath is twined; Who pass unheard—unknown, away, And leave no trace behind;—

Who, but for their unwavering trust In Justice, Truth, and God, Would faint upon their weary way, And perish by the road.

Truth, Justice, God! Oh mighty faith, To bear us up unharmed; The gates of Hell may not prevail Against a soul so armed.

Thoughts in a Library

Speak low—tread softly through these halls; Here genius lives enshrined,— Here reign, in silent majesty, The monarchs of the mind.

A mighty spirit-host they come, From every age and clime; Above the buried wrecks of years, They breast the tide of Time.

And in their presence-chamber here, They hold their regal state, And round them throng a noble train, The gifted and the great.

Oh, child of Earth! when round thy path The storms of life arise, And when thy brothers pass thee by, With stern, unloving eyes,—

Here shall the Poets chant for thee Their sweetest, loftiest lays; And Prophets wait to guide thy steps In wisdom’s pleasant ways.

Come, with these God-anointed kings, Be thou companion here; And in the mighty realm of: mind, Thou shalt go forth a peer!

Lines to One Who Wished to Read a Poem I Had Written

TO ONE WHO WISHED TO READ A POEM I HAD WRITTEN.

Nay, read it not, thou wouldst not know What lives within my heart, For from that fount it does not flow; ’Tis but the voice of Art.

I could not bid my proud heart speak, Before the idle throng; Rather in silence would it break With its full tide of Song.

Yes, rather would it break, than bare, To cold and careless eyes, The hallowed dreams that linger there, The tears and agonies.

My lyre is skillful to repress Each deep, impassioned tone; Its gushing springs of tenderness Would flow for one alone.

The rock, that to the parching sand Would yield no dewy drop, Struck by the pilgrim prophet’s wand, Gave all its treasures up.

My heart then, is my only lyre; The prophet hath not spoken, Nor kindled its celestial fire; So, let its chords be broken.

I would not thou shouldst hear those lays, Though harsh they might not be; Though thou, perchance, might’st hear and praise, They would not speak of me.

An Imitation

As once I dreamed, methought I strayed Within a snow-clad mountain’s shade; From whose far height the silence bore One charméd word, “Excelsior!”

And, as upon my soul it fell, It bound me with a fearful spell; It shut the sweet vale from my sight, And called me up that dazzling height

I could not choose but heed its tone, And climb that dreary path alone; And now around me hung the gloom, Where the storm-spirit makes his home

Upon my head the tempests beat; Dark caverns opened at my feet; The thunders rolled, the lightnings flashed And fierce the swollen torrents dashed.

’Twas gained, that mountain’s stormy pass; But, chilled beside a mer de glace, My heavy heart in vain would soar,— The heart hears not “Excelsior!”

The heart’s home is the vale below, Where kind words greet, where fond eyes glow; It withers ’neath those frozen skies, Where the aspiring thought would rise.

Above me the eternal snows In the cold sunlight’s glare arose, And a dread Presence seemed to brood O’er the appalling solitude.

But now, on that unquiet dream, Did one of stateliest aspect beam; Whose brow thought’s kingly impress bore, Whose soul thrilled to “Excelsior!”

Though but one moment o’er my way Did the bright form beside me stay; In that pale brow and speaking eye, Methought I saw my Destiny!

And as, far up the heaven-crowned height, Thou seem’dst to vanish from my sight;

Thine image yet beside me stood, And filled the voiceless solitude.

No longer drear that mountain waste. For o’er its snows thy steps had passed; No longer dread, in upper air, That mountain’s crest, for thou wert there!

Day Dawn in Italy

Italia! in thy bleeding heart, I thought, e’en hope was dead; That from thy scarred and prostrate form, The spark of life had fled.

I thought, as Memory’s sunset glow Its radiance o’er thee cast, That all thy glory and thy fame Were buried in the past.

Twice Mistress of the world! I thought Thy star had set in gloom; That all thy shrines and monuments Were but thy spirit’s tomb.

The mausoleum of the world, Where Art her spoils might keep; Where pilgrims from all shrines might come, To wonder and to weep.

The thunders of the Vatican Had long since died away; Saint Peter’s chair seemed tottering, And crumbling to decay.

Thy ancient line of Pontiff Kings Was to the past allied; And oft in Freedom’s holy wars, They fought not on her side.

The sacred banner of the Cross Was trailing, soiled and torn; And often had the hostile ranks That blessed ensign borne.

But from her death-like slumber now, The seven-hilled city wakes: Italia! on thy shrouded sky, A gleam of morning breaks.

Along the Alps and Appenines Runs an electric thrill; A golden splendor lights once more The Capitolian hill.

And hopes, bright as thy sunny skies, Are o’er thy future cast;

The future that upon thee beams, As glorious as thy past.

The laurels that thy Caesars wore, Were dyed with crimson stains; Their triumphs glittered with the spoil Won on thy battle plains.

But for thy Pontiff Prince, to-day, A laurel might’st thou twine, Unsullied as the spotless life He lays upon thy shrine.

For him might the triumphal car Ascend the hill again; No slaves, bound to the chariot wheels, Should swell the lengthened train:—

Such train, as in her proudest days, Was never seen in Rome,— Of captives from the dungeon freed,— Of exiles welcomed home.

When, gazing on the doubtful strife, The Hebrew leader prayed, The friends of Israel gathered round, His drooping hands they staid.

And thus around the Patriarch’s chair, The friends of Freedom stand,— All eager, though it falters not, To stay his lifted hand.

And in a clearer, firmer tone, Is heard their rallying cry; From Ætna to the Alps it sounds: “For God and Liberty!”

From De Vigny

Come on the sea, beloved, Fearless and free; Leave friends and wealth behind; Come, come with me. My bark on the water shines A fairy thing;— See her pennon, mast, and keel! She is but a little shell, Yet there I am king.

The earth was made for the slave, Oh maiden free! But for man, the stern and brave, The boundless sea. The waves breathe in their flow A mystery, And tenderly they sing, In their soft murmuring,— Love, Liberty.

On the Death of an Infant

Why should we weep for thee, Since thou hast gone unsullied back to heaven, No stain upon thy spirit’s purity, No sin to be forgiven?

Love watched thee from thy birth, Fond hearts around thee tireless vigils kept; And o’er thy tender soul the storms of earth Had never rudely swept.

Thou art spared a fearful lore— A knowledge all attain who linger here; The changed, the cold, the dead, were words that bore No import to thine ear.

Methought I saw in thee, Thus early as I marked by many a token, A soul that might not war with Destiny, A heart that could be broken.

But sinless, tearless, gone, Undimmed, unstained, who would not thus have died! For thee then let these vain regrets be done, These selfish tears be dried.

Go to thy little bed! The verdant turf is springing fresh and fair, The flowers thou lovedst shall blossom o’er thy head, The spring birds warble there.

And while to shapeless dust Thy cherub form is gently mouldering back, Our thoughts shall upward soar, in hopeful trust, On thy freed spirit’s track.

Teaching the Scriptures

Child of the thoughtful brow, The speaking eye and the confiding look! List to those teachings now, And make thy guiding star that Blessed Book.

If bright thy course of life, ’T will shed around thy path a holier ray; If dark with storms and strife, ’Twill beam like sunlight on thy dreary way.

Come while around thee clings The joyousness and innocence of birth; Come, ere thy spirit’s wings Are wet with tears and stained with hues of earth.

Like tendrils of the vine, Those deep affections with thy heart inwove, Must round some prop entwine; They ask some object for their wealth of love.

And if that object be Earth-born and mortal, they will languish still: There is a vacancy In woman’s heart, that God alone can fill.

Faith

H.

Securely cabined in the ship below, Through darkness and through storm I cross the sea, A pathless wilderness of waves to me: But yet I do not fear, because I know That he who guides the good ship o’er that waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this life’s bewildering maze; Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass, Through thornset barren and through deep morass: But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, And bare my head unshrinking to the blast, Because my Father’s arm is round me cast; And if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp.

Huntington's Picture of Washington Crossing the Alleghany

ON HUNTINGTON’S PICTURE OF WASHINGTON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANY IN EARLY LIFE.

More proudly on thy winding course, Dark Alleghany! flow; The noblest burden thou couldst bear Is on thy waters now.

But calm be every turbid wave, And hushed be wind and storm: There lies a Nation’s destiny Within that gallant form.

A spirit that shall stem a tide More deep and dark than thine; That on a night of War shall bid The star of Victory shine.

A spirit that through coming time Shall bear a hallowed name; The glory of old conquerors Shall pale before his fame.

And young Ambition on his course Shall turn his eagle eye; And men invoke his sainted shade In threat’ning anarchy.

No baleful meteor shall he be, To dazzle from afar; But in the firmament of Fame A fixed, a polar star!

To ****, With Flowers

Go, ye sweet messengers, To that dim-lighted room, Where lettered wisdom from the walls Sheds a delightful gloom;

Where sits in thought profound, One in the noon of life, Whose flashing eye and fevered brow Tell of the inward strife;

Who in those wells of lore, Seeks for the pearls of truth, And to Ambition’s fever dream Gives his repose and youth.

To him, sweet ministers, Ye shall a lesson teach,— Go in your fleeting loveliness, More eloquent than speech.

Tell him in laurel wreaths No perfume e’er is found, And that upon a crown of thorns Those leaves are ever bound.

Thoughts fresh as your own hues Bear ye to that abode,— Speak of the sunshine and the sky, Of Nature and of God.

To a Child

I love to look on that eye of blue, For tears have not yet worn a channel through; And the few bright summers since thy birth, Have left thee a stranger still on earth.

A stranger—and all, to thine untaught eyes, Is bright with the hues of paradise. The rapture of being thrills thy frame, And sorrow thou know’st not even by name.

Thy innocent thoughts, unswayed by art, Gush from the depths of thy guileless heart; Like a harp when the wandering breezes sigh, Answering each touch with melody.

I would, sweet one, I might wish for thee, That a stranger thus thou shouldst ever be; That time might not lift the enchanted veil, Nor breathe in thine ear his mournful tale.

But those who are bid to this feast of life, Must drink the cup,—must abide the strife:— Then it were better to wish for thee, Strength for the conflict, and victory.

An Apology for Sadness

When, in the miser’s eager gaze, His countless treasures lie, Then most his coward spirit sinks, With dread of poverty.

And when I felt within my grasp, The treasure of thy love; The insatiate avarice of the heart Fierce with my spirit strove.

It troubled the clear fountain where My thirsting soul had quaffed, And mingled tears of bitterness With the delicious draught.

A Dirge for O'Connell

Throw open, once again, The portals of the tomb; And give, among the glorious dead, Another hero room!

Unclose your shadowy ranks, Illustrious shades, unclose! The valiant Leader, crowned with years, Goes down to his repose.

The champion of Peace, On many a well-fought field, Whose bloodless victories left no stain On his untarnished shield.

A king, though on his brow No jewelled crown might shine; A king, although his patriot blood Flowed from no royal line.

A sovereign o’er that realm, No boundaries can confine; Whose throne was in a nation’s heart; Who reigned by right divine.

A soldier of the Cross, Who bore a stainless brand; The preacher of a new Crusade, To rescue a lost land.

Rome! to thy care is given The heart whose throbs are o’er; Eternal City! to thy charge, Take this one relic more!

And Erin, sad and lorn! Take thou the sacred trust; And let the soil he loved so well, Commingle with his dust.

And Fame, take thou in charge The patriot’s renown; And gather from your amaranth fields, Another fadeless crown!

On a Picture of the Virgin

If the young mother clasp, for the first time, The mortal child that earthly love has given, With a deep joy preluding that of heaven; Who shall describe thy ecstacy sublime, Oh Virgin mother! when upon thy ear The message of the announcing angel fell, In heavenly tones to calm thy rising fear, And thy approaching glory to foretell. Was ever mother so divinely blest, As when, the glow of Heaven yet clinging round him, Before the weight of human grief had bound him, The gentle Christ-child to thy heart was prest? Oh, blessed among women! joy like thine What hand shall dare describe! alas, not mine.

Lines to Frederika Bremer

“Hereafter, when I no more belong to earth, I should love to return to it as a spirit, and impart to men the deepest of that which I have suffered and enjoyed, lived and loved. And no one need fear me; should I come in the midnight hour to a striving and unquiet spirit, it would be only to make it more quiet, its night-lamp burn more brightly, and myself its friend and sister.”—Miss Bremer’s Letter.

Hereafter!—nay, thou hast thy wish e’en here; To many a striving spirit dost thou come, Sweet lady, from thy far-off northern home, Like a blest presence from another sphere, And love and faith, the night-lamps of the soul, Have burned with brighter flame at thy control.

A friend and sister art thou now to those Who weep o’erburdened with life’s weary load, And faint and toil-worn tread the desert road; To them thou beckonest from thy high repose: Thou’st gained that steep where endless day appears, That faith whose followers are baptized with tears.

There came no voices from thy distant shore; We heard no echo of thy country’s lyres, We saw no gleaming of her household fires; A cloud had hung thy land and language o’er, Until thy pictured thoughts broke on our eyes Like an Aurora of thy native skies.

Thy name is loved through all our fair wide land: Where the log-cabins of our western woods Are scattered through the dim old solitudes, Where, glowing with young life, our cities stand, There go thy white-winged messengers, as went Of old the angels to the patriarch’s tent.

My harp is tuneless and unknown to fame; A few weak chords, alas! chance-strung and frail, O’er which sweeps fitfully the passing gale. Would it indeed were worthier of its theme, That it might bear across the distant sea The homage of unnumbered hearts to thee.

The Dumb Creation

Deal kindly with those speechless ones, That throng our gladsome earth; Say not the bounteous gift of life Alone is nothing worth.

What though with mournful memories They sigh not for the past? What though their ever joyous Now No future overcast?

No aspirations fill their breast With longings undefined; They live, they love, and they are blest, For what they seek they find.

They see no mystery in the stars, No wonder in the plain; And Life’s enigma wakes in them No questions dark and vain.

To them earth is a final home, A bright and blest abode; Their lives unconsciously flow on In harmony with God.

To this fair world our human hearts Their hopes and longings bring, And o’er its beauty and its bloom Their own dark shadows fling.

Between the future and the past In wild unrest we stand; And ever as our feet advance, Retreats the promised land.

And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and Power, Bind in their gilded bond, We pine to grasp the unattained— The something still beyond.

And, beating on their prison bars, Our spirits ask more room, And with unanswered questionings, They pierce beyond the tomb.

Then say thou not, oh doubtful heart, There is no life to come; That in some tearless, cloudless land, Thou shalt not find thy home.

On a Picture (1)

When Summer o’er her native hills A veil of beauty spread, She sat and watched her gentle fold, And twined her flaxen thread.

The mountain daisies kissed her feet, The moss sprung greenest there; The breath of Summer fanned her cheek, And tossed her wavy hair.

The heather and the yellow gorse Bloomed over hill and wold, And clothed them in a royal robe Of purple and of gold.

There rose the sky-lark’s gushing song; There hummed the laboring bee; And merrily the mountain stream Ran singing to the sea.

But while she missed from those sweet sounds, The voice she sighed to hear; The song of bee, and bird, and stream, Was discord to her ear.

Nor could the bright green world around A joy to her impart, For still she missed the eyes that made The summer of her heart.

Evening Hymn

On the swift flying hours Another bright day, With its tears and its smiles, Has vanished away. Thou who dost number Our days as they flee, May each that departs Bear us nearer to thee!

On the wide sea of life Soon our barks will be tost, And the sweet ties that bind us Be broken and lost. Father in Heaven, Be our guide to that shore, Where night never cometh, Where partings are o’er.

Paul Preaching at Athens

Greece! hear that joyful sound, A stranger’s voice upon thy sacred hill; Whose tones shall bid the slumbering nations round, Wake with convulsive thrill. Athenians! gather there; he brings you words Brighter than all your boasted lore affords.

He brings you news of One, Above Olympian Jove. One, in whose light Your gods shall fade like stars before the sun. On your bewildered night, That Unknown God of whom ye darkly dream, In all his burning radiance shall beam.

Behold, he bids you rise From your dark worship at that idol shrine; He points to Him who reared your starry skies, And bade your Phœbus shine. Lift up your souls, from where in dust ye bow; That God of gods commands your homage now.

But brighter tidings still! He tells of One whose precious blood was spilt, In lavish streams upon Judea’s hill, A ransom for your guilt,— Who triumphed o’er the grave, and broke its chain; Who conquered Death and Hell, and rose again.

Sages of Greece! come near— Spirits of daring thought and giant mould. Ye questioners of Time and Nature, hear Mysteries before untold! Immortal life revealed! light for which ye Have tasked in vain your proud philosophy.

Searchers for some first cause, ’Midst doubt and darkness—lo! he points to One, Where all your vaunted reason, lost, must pause, And faint to think upon,— That was from everlasting, that shall be To everlasting still, eternally.

Ye followers of him Who deemed his soul a spark of Deity! Your fancies fade,—your master’s dreams grow dim To this reality. Stoic! unbend that brow, drink in that sound! Skeptic! dispel those doubts, the Truth is found.