Take thy banner !—and beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
· In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner!-But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him-he our love hath shared!
Spare him--as thou wouldst be spared!
Take thy banner!--and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be,
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!
And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.
SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not so wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation
Written all over this great world of ours;
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth--these golden flowers.
And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the self-same, universal being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining;
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining
Buds that open only to decay!
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!
These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself, and in the flowers.
Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born:
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield:
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But on old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tomb of heroes, carved in stone;
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,
In ancestral houses, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;
In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
And with child-like, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.
GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lours upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry—
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee,
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For
every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
Só calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.
The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the place the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
|