Dear mother, in thy prayer, to-night, There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the lightComes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The ear of heaven bends low to her! He comes to shore who sails with me! The spider knows the roof unriven, While swings his web, though lightnings blaze-And by a thread still fast on heaven, I know my mother lives and prays! Dear mother! when our lips can speak— When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes on me'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had For all may flee, so feeling lingers! To share the heart once only mine! Room in thy heart! The hearth she left There are bright flowers of care bereft, And hearts-that languish more than flowers! She was their light-their very air— Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy prayer! NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 93 The Arsenal at Springfield. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise-how wild and dreary- Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus- On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer; Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song; And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorred; Down the dark future, through long generations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 'Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. The Battle Autumn (1862). THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow ; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps THE BATTLE AUTUMN (1862). And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms; And still she wears her fruits and flowers What mean the gladness of the plain, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain, Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, She meets with smiles our bitter grief, Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear She knows the seed lies safe below She sees with clearer eye than ours The heart that blossoms like her flowers, Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees 95 Oh, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din We, too, would hear the bells of cheer Ring Peace and Freedom in! JOHN G. WHITTIER. How Sleep the Brave! H OW sleep the brave who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, WILLIAM COLLINS. Freedom's Battle. FOR Freedom's battle, once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, Though baffled oft, is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page! |