His granaries all overflow with rich stores;
The room is enlarged, and his house grows apace; And o'er it is ruling
The housewife so modest,
His children's dear mother: And wisely she governs The circle of home. The maidens she trains, And the boys she restrains, Keeps plying for ever Her hands that flag never, And wealth helps to raise With her orderly ways,
The sweet-scented presses with treasures piles high, Bids the thread round the fast-whirling spindle to fly; The cleanly and bright-polished chest she heaps full With the flax white as snow, and the glistening wool; All glitter and splendor ordains for the best, And takes no rest.
Traced already is the breach; Yet before we let it run,
Heaven's protecting aid beseech! Let the plug now fly!
May God's help be nigh!
In the mould all smoking rush Fire-brown billows with fierce gush.
Beneficent the might of flame,
When 'tis by man watch'd o'er, made tame;
For to this heav'nly power he owes
All his creative genius knows; Yet terrible that power will be When from its fetters it breaks free, Threads its own path with passion wild, As nature's free and reckless child. Woe, if it casts off its chains,
And, without resistance, growing, Through the crowded streets and lanes Spreads the blaze, all fiercely glowing! For the elements still hate All the mortal hands create. From the clouds all blessings rill, 'Tis the clouds that rain distil; From the clouds, with quivering beams,
From yon tower the wailing sound Spreads the fire alarm around! Blood-red, lo!
But 'tis not the day's clear glow! Smoke up-flies!
Loud the shout
Round about!
High the fiery column glows,
Through the streets' far-stretching rows On with lightning speed it goes.
Hot, as from an oven's womb, Burns the air, while beams consume, Windows rattle, pillars fall, Children wail and mothers call. Beasts are groaning. Underneath the ruins moaning All their safety seek in flight, Day-clear lighted is the night. Through the hands' extended chain Fies the bucket on amain; Floods of water high are thrown, Howling comes the tempest on Roaring in the flames' pursuit. Cracking on the wither'd fruit Falls it, on the granary, On the rafters' timber dry, And, as if earth's heavy weigh. Seeking in its flight to bear, Mounts it, as a giant great,
Wildly thro' the realms of air. Man now loses hope at length, Yielding to immortal strength; Idly, and with wond'ring gaze, All the wreck he now surveys. Burnt to ashes is the stead, Now the wild storm's rugged bed. In the empty window-panes Shudd'ring horror now remains, And the clouds of heaven above Peep in, as they onward move.
Upon the grave where buried lies His earthly wealth, his longing eyes The man one ling'ring moment throws, Then, as a pilgrim, gladly goes. Whate'er the fierce flames may destroy,
One consolation sweet is left;
His lov'd ones' heads he counts,-and, Joy!. He is not e'en of one bereft!
In the earth it now has pour'd And the mould has fill'd aright; Skill and labor to reward, Will it beauteous come to light? If the mould should crack? If the casting lack? While we hope, e'en now, alas, Mischief may have come to pass!
To the dark womb of holy earth
We trust what issues from our hand, As trusts the sower to the land His seed, in hope 'twill have its bi th To bless us, true to Heaven's command. Seed still more precious in the womb
Of earth we trusting hide, and wait In hope that even from the tomb 'Twill blossom to a happier fate.
Sad and heavy from the dome Hark! the Bell's death-wailings come. Solemnly the strains with sorrow fraught, On her way a pilgrim now escort.
For a mother tolls the Bell! For a fond wife sounds the knell! Death, regardless of her charms, Tears her from her husband's arms, From her children tears her too, Offspring of affection true,
Whom she cherish'd with the love None but mothers e'er can prove. All the ties their hearts uniting
Are dissolv'd for evermore;
She whose smile that home was lighting Wanders on oblivion's shore.
Who will now avert each danger? Who will now each care dispel?
In her seat will sit a stranger- She can never love so well! Till the Bell has cooled aright, Let the arduous labour rest; As the bird midst foliage bright Flutters, each may thus be blest.
When the daylight wanes, Free from duty's claims Workmen hear the vesper chime; Masters have for rest no time. Gladly hies the wanderer fast,
Through the forest glades so deep, Tow'rd his own lov'd cot at last.
Bleating homeward go the sheep; Broad-brow'd, smooth-skinn'd cattle, all Bellowing come, and fill each stall. Home returns the heavy wain, Stagg'ring 'neath its load of grain. Many-hued,' the garlands lie On the sheaves, while gladly fly To the dance the reaper boys,— Hush'd each street and market noise; Round the candle's social light All the household now unite. Creakingly the town-gates close, Darkness its black mantle throws O'er the earth; but yet the night, Though it fills the bad with awe, Gives the townsman no affright, For he trusts the wakeful law. Holy Order, blessing rife,
Sedition then the Bell surrounds,
And bids it yield a howling tone; And, meant for none but peaceful sounds, The signal to the fray spurs on. Freedom! Equality!" they shout;
The peaceful townsman grasps his arms. Mobs stand the streets and halls about,
The place with bands of murderers swarm. into hyenas women grow,
From horrors their amusement draw; The heart, still quivering, of the foe With panther's teeth they fierely gnaw. All that is holy is effaced,
Rent are the bonds of modesty; The good is by the bad replaced,
And crime from all restraint is free. Death-fraught the tiger's tooth appears, To wake the lion madness seems; Yet the most fearful of all fears
Is man obeying his wild dreams.
Woe be to him who, to the blind,
The heavenly touch of light conveys! It throws no radiance on his mind, But land and town in ashes lays. God hath hearken'd to my vow! See, how like a star of gold Peels the metal kernal now,
Smooth and glistening from the mould! E'en from crown to base Sunlight gleams its face, While the scutcheons, fairly plann'd, Praise the skilful artist's hand. Now let us gather round the frame! The ring let ev'ry workman swell, That we may consecrate the Bell! CONCORDIA be henceforth its name, Assembling all the loving throng In harmony and union strong!
And this be the vocation fit
For which the founder fashion'd it!
High, high above earth's life, earth's labour, E'en to the heav'ns' blue vault to soar, To hover as the thunder's neighbor, The very firmament explore; To be a voice as from above,
Like yonder stars so bright and clear, That praise their Maker as they move And usher in the circling year. Tun'd be its metal mouth alone
To things eternal and sublime, And, as the swift-wing'd hours speed on, May it record the flight of time! Its tongue to Fate it well may lend;
Heartless itself, and feeling nought, May with its warning notes attend On human life; with change so fraught. And, as the strains die on the ear
That it peals forth with tuneful might, To let it teach that nought lasts here, That all things earthly take their flight! Now then, with the rope so strong,
From the vaul. the bell up weigh, That it gains the realms of song, And the heav'nly light of day! All hands nimbly ply!
Now it mounts on high!
To this city Joy reveals,—
PEACE be the first strain it peals!
ye who love to overhang the springs, And stand by running waters, ye whose boughs Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play, Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear A paradise upon the lonely plain,
Trees of the forest, and the open field!
Have ye no sense of being? Does the air,
The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves, All unenjoyed? When on your winter sleep The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring? And when the glorious spring-time comes at last, Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds To which your young leaves shiver? Do ye strive And wrestle with the wind, yet know it not? Feel ye no glory in your strength when he, The exhausted Blusterer, flies beyond the hills, And leaves you stronger yet? Or have ye not A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves, Yet tender, and has splintered your fair boughs? Does the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud And rends you, fall unfelt? Do there not run Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe Is raised against you, and the shining blade Deals blow on blow, until, with all their boughs, Your summits waver and ye fall to earth? Know ye no sadness when the hurricane
Has swept the wood and snapped its sturdy stems Asunder, or has wrenched, from out the soil. The mightiest with their circles of strong roots, And piled the ruin all along his path?
Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, There dwells a nature that receives delight From all the gentle processes of life, And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, As in our dreams; but, haply, real still.
Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside The beds of those who languish or who die, And minister in sadness, while our hearts
And health to the beloved sufferers.
But ye, while anxious tear and fainting hope Are in our chambers, ye rejoice without. The funeral goes forth; a silent train
Moves slowly from the desolate home; our hearts Are breaking as we lay away the loved, Whom we shall see no more, in their last rest, Their little cells within the burial place. Ye have no part in this distress; for still The February sunshine steeps your boughs And tints the buds and swells the leaves within; While the song-sparrow, warbling from her perch, Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs, The bees and every insect of the air
Make a perpetuai murmur of delight,
And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised In air, and draws their sweets and darts away. The linden, in the fervors of July,
Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring. The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate, And when the autumn comes, the kings of earth, In all their majesty, are not arrayed As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold, While, swaying to the sudden breeze, ye fling Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes To gather them, and barks with childish glee, And scampers with them to his hollow oak.
Thus, as the seasons pass, ye keep alive The cheerfulness of nature, till in time The constant misery which wrings the heart Relents, and we rejoice with you again, And glory in your beauty; till once more We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves, That gaily glance in sunshine, and can hear, Delighted, the soft answer which your boughs Utter in whispers to the babbling brook.
Ye have no history. I cannot know Who, when the hill-side trees were hewn away, Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak, Leaning to shade, with his irregular arms. Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots Slips through a bed of cresses toward the Day, I know not who, but thank him that he left The tree to flourish where the acorn fell. And join these later days to that far time While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow In the dim woods, and the white woodman first Opened these fields to sunshine, turned the soil And strewed the wheat. An unremembered Past
Broods, like a presence, 'mid the long gray boughs Of this old tree, which has outlived so long The flitting generations of mankind.
Ye have no history. I ask in vain Who planted on the slope this lofty group Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still It feels the breath of Spring, and every May Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain, Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe This annual festival of bees, these songs Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts Of joy from children gathering up the fruit Shaken in August from the willing boughs.
Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, Beside the way, or in the orchard ground, Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs With every summer spread a wider shade, Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest Beneath your noontide shelter? who shall pluch Your ripened fruit? who grave, as was the won! Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind Of my smooth beeches some beloved name? Idly I ask; yet may the eyes that look Upon you, in your later, nobler growth, Look also on a nobler age than ours;
An age when, in the eternal strife between Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win A grander mastery; when kings no more Shall summon millions from the plough to learn. The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms Make camps of war; when in our younger land The hand of ruffian Violence, that now Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall Unnerven before the calm rebuke of Law, And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in ame, Back to his covert, and forego his prey.
Oh, when I was a tiny boy My days and night were full of joy,
My mates were blythe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from mine eye, To cast a look behind!
A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found A top a joyous thing;-
But now those past delights I drop, My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!
My marbles-once my bag was stored,Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
My playful horse has slipped his string, Forgotten all his capering,
And harnessed to the law!
My kite-how fast and far it flew! While I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote-my present dreams Will never soar so high.
My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a hoop, And seldom with a call!
My football's laid upon the shelf;
I am a shuttlecock myself
The world knocks to and fro,- My archery is all unlearned, And grief against myself has turned My arrows and my bow!
No more in noontide sun I bask; My authorship's an endless task,
My head's ne'er out of school,
My heart is pained with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight,
And friends grown strangely cool!
The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake, It makes me shrink and sigh,- On this I will not dwell and hang, The changeling would not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye!
No skies so blue or so serene
then;-no leaves look half so green A. clothed the play-ground tree: All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me!
Oh, for the garb that marked the boy,- The trowsers made of corduroy,
Well ink'd with black and red;
The crownless hat -ne'er deem'd an ill- It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head!
Oh for the ribbon round the neck! The careless dog's-ears apt to deck My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?
Oh, for that small, small beer anew! And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue That washed my sweet meals down; The master even!-and that small Turk
That fagged me!-worse is now my work- A fag for all the town!
Oh for the lessons learned by heart! Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark those hours again; I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned Beneath the stroke,-and even find Some sugar in the cane!
The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The Fairy Tales in school-time read, By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun! The angel form that always walked In all my dreams, and looked and talked Exactly like Miss Brown!
The "omne bene"-Christmas come,- The prize of merit, won for home,-
Merit had prizes then!
But now I write for days and days,- For fame-a deal of empty praise
Without the silver pen!
Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach,
The joyous shout,-the loud approach,—
The winding horns like rams'!
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,- The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,
No "satis" to the "jams." When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blythe and kind,— No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind!
Not to know vice at all, and keep true state, Is virtue and not fate:
Next to that virtue is to know vice well, And her black spite expel: Which to effect (since no beast is so sure Or safe but she'll procure Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard Of thoughts to watch and warn At th' eye and ear (the ports unto the mind) That no strange or unkind Object arrive there, but the heart (our spy) Give knowledge instantly
To awaken reason, our affections' king: Who in th' examining
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit Close, the close cause of it.
'Tis the securest policy we have
To make our sense our slave. But this true course is not embraced by many: By many? Scarce by any. For either our affections do rebel,
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