FAREWELL

TO J. R. LOWELL

FAREWELL, for the bark has her breast to the tide, And the rough arms of Ocean are stretched for his bride; The winds from the mountain stream over the bay; One clasp of the hand, then away and away!

I see the tall mast as it rocks by the sh.o.r.e; The sun is declining, I see it once more; To-day like the blade in a thick-waving field, To-morrow the spike on a Highlander's shield.

Alone, while the cloud pours its treacherous breath, With the blue lips all round her whose kisses are death; Ah, think not the breeze that is urging her sail Has left her unaided to strive with the gale.

There are hopes that play round her, like fires on the mast, That will light the dark hour till its danger has past; There are prayers that will plead with the storm when it raves, And whisper "Be still!" to the turbulent waves.

Nay, think not that Friendship has called us in vain To join the fair ring ere we break it again; There is strength in its circle,--you lose the bright star, But its sisters still chain it, though shining afar.

I give you one health in the juice of the vine, The blood of the vineyard shall mingle with mine; Thus, thus let us drain the last dew-drops of gold, As we empty our hearts of the blessings they hold.

April 29, 1855.

FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB

THE mountains glitter in the snow A thousand leagues asunder; Yet here, amid the banquet's glow, I hear their voice of thunder; Each giant's ice-bound goblet clinks; A flowing stream is summoned; Wachusett to Ben Nevis drinks; Monadnock to Ben Lomond!

Though years have clipped the eagle's plume That crowned the chieftain's bonnet, The sun still sees the heather bloom, The silver mists lie on it;

With tartan kilt and philibeg, What stride was ever bolder Than his who showed the naked leg Beneath the plaided shoulder?

The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills, That heard the bugles blowing When down their sides the crimson rills With mingled blood were flowing; The hunts where gallant hearts were game, The slashing on the border, The raid that swooped with sword and flame, Give place to "law and order."

Not while the rocking steeples reel With midnight tocsins ringing, Not while the crashing war-notes peal, G.o.d sets his poets singing; The bird is silent in the night, Or shrieks a cry of warning While fluttering round the beacon-light,-- But hear him greet the morning!

The lark of Scotia's morning sky!

Whose voice may sing his praises?

With Heaven's own sunlight in his eye, He walked among the daisies, Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong He soared to fields of glory; But left his land her sweetest song And earth her saddest story.

'T is not the forts the builder piles That chain the earth together; The wedded crowns, the sister isles, Would laugh at such a tether; The kindling thought, the throbbing words, That set the pulses beating, Are stronger than the myriad swords Of mighty armies meeting.

Thus while within the banquet glows, Without, the wild winds whistle, We drink a triple health,--the Rose, The Shamrock, and the Thistle Their blended hues shall never fade Till War has hushed his cannon,-- Close-twined as ocean-currents braid The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon!

ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

CELEBRATION OF THE MERCANTILE LIBRARY a.s.sOCIATION, FEBRUARY 22, 1856

WELCOME to the day returning, Dearer still as ages flow, While the torch of Faith is burning, Long as Freedom's altars glow!

See the hero whom it gave us Slumbering on a mother's breast; For the arm he stretched to save us, Be its morn forever blest!

Hear the tale of youthful glory, While of Britain's rescued band Friend and foe repeat the story, Spread his fame o'er sea and land, Where the red cross, proudly streaming, Flaps above the frigate's deck, Where the golden lilies, gleaming, Star the watch-towers of Quebec.

Look! The shadow on the dial Marks the hour of deadlier strife; Days of terror, years of trial, Scourge a nation into life.

Lo, the youth, become her leader All her baffled tyrants yield; Through his arm the Lord hath freed her; Crown him on the tented field!

Vain is Empire's mad temptation Not for him an earthly crown He whose sword hath freed a nation Strikes the offered sceptre down.

See the throneless Conqueror seated, Ruler by a people's choice; See the Patriot's task completed; Hear the Father's dying voice!

"By the name that you inherit, By the sufferings you recall, Cherish the fraternal spirit; Love your country first of all!

Listen not to idle questions If its bands maybe untied; Doubt the patriot whose suggestions Strive a nation to divide!"

Father! We, whose ears have tingled With the discord-notes of shame,-- We, whose sires their blood have mingled In the battle's thunder-flame,-- Gathering, while this holy morning Lights the land from sea to sea, Hear thy counsel, heed thy warning; Trust us, while we honor thee!

BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER

JANUARY 18, 1856

WHEN life hath run its largest round Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, How brief a storied page is found To compa.s.s all its outward show!

The world-tried sailor tires and droops; His flag is rent, his keel forgot; His farthest voyages seem but loops That float from life's entangled knot.

But when within the narrow s.p.a.ce Some larger soul hath lived and wrought, Whose sight was open to embrace The boundless realms of deed and thought,--

When, stricken by the freezing blast, A nation's living pillars fall, How rich the storied page, how vast, A word, a whisper, can recall!

No medal lifts its fretted face, Nor speaking marble cheats your eye, Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, A living image pa.s.ses by:

A roof beneath the mountain pines; The cloisters of a hill-girt plain; The front of life's embattled lines; A mound beside the heaving main.

These are the scenes: a boy appears; Set life's round dial in the sun, Count the swift arc of seventy years, His frame is dust; his task is done.

Yet pause upon the noontide hour, Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power, And look upon the mighty shade.

No gloom that stately shape can hide, No change uncrown its brow; behold I Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed, Earth has no double from its mould.

Ere from the fields by valor won The battle-smoke had rolled away, And bared the blood-red setting sun, His eyes were opened on the day.

His land was but a shelving strip Black with the strife that made it free He lived to see its banners dip Their fringes in the Western sea.