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 State!
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-.
79. Forgiveness.
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.
80. Good Heart and Willing Hand,
In storms or shine, two friends of mine
Go forth to work or play,
And when they visit poor men's homes,
They bless them by the way.
'Tis willing hand! 'Tis cheerful heart!
The two best friends I know,
Around the hearth come joy and mirth
Where'er their faces glow.
Come shine-'tis bright! come dark-'tis light!
Come cold-'tis warm ere long !
So heavily fall the hammer stroke!
Merrily sound the song!
Who falls may stand, if good right hand
Is first, not second best:
Who weeps, may sing, if kindly heart
Has lodged in his breast.
The humblest board has dainties poured,
When they sit down to dine;
The crust they eat is honey sweet,
The water good as wine.
They fill the purse with honest gold,
They lead no creature wrong;
So heavily fall the hammer stroke!
Merrily sound the song!
Without these twain, the poor complain
Of evils hard to bear,
But with them, poverty grows rich
And finds a loaf to spare!
Their looks are fire-their words inspire—
Their deeds give courage high;
About their knees the children run,
Or climb, they know not why.
Who sails, or rides, or walks with them,
Ne'er finds the journey long;—
So heavily fall the hammer stroke!
Merrily sound the song!
Chas. Mackay, Scotland, 1814-.
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell,-
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy,-for murmurings from within
Were heard, sonorous cadences, whereby,
To his belief, the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow and ever-enduring power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation.
W. Wordsworth, England, 1770-1850.
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