Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 5

silent fingers spelt,?For him who first through depths unknown?His doubtful pathway felt,
Who sought the slumbering sense that lay?Close shut with bolt and bar,?And showed awakening thought the ray?Of reason's morning star
Where'er he moved, his shadowy form?The sightless orbs would seek,?And smiles of welcome light and warm?The lips that could not speak.
No labored line, no sculptor's art,?Such hallowed memory needs;?His tablet is the human heart,?His record loving deeds.
III.
The rest that earth denied is thine,--?Ah, is it rest? we ask,?Or, traced by knowledge more divine,?Some larger, nobler task?
Had but those boundless fields of blue?One darkened sphere like this;?But what has heaven for thee to do?In realms of perfect bliss?
No cloud to lift, no mind to clear,?No rugged path to smooth,?No struggling soul to help and cheer,?No mortal grief to soothe!
Enough; is there a world of love,?No more we ask to know;?The hand will guide thy ways above?That shaped thy task below.
JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.
TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield?Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe,?By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw,?Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield?The slayer's weapon : on the murderous field?The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low,?Seeking its noblest victim. Even so?The charter of a nation must be sealed!?The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned,?From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed.?Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound;?Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed,?Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed?Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found.
June 11, 1875.
OLD CAMBRIDGE
JULY 3, 1875
AND can it be you've found a place?Within this consecrated space,?That makes so fine a show,?For one of Rip Van Winkle's race??And is it really so??Who wants an old receipted bill??Who fishes in the Frog-pond still??Who digs last year's potato hill?--?That's what he'd like to know!
And were it any spot on earth?Save this dear home that gave him birth?Some scores of years ago,?He had not come to spoil your mirth?And chill your festive glow;?But round his baby-nest he strays,?With tearful eye the scene surveys,?His heart unchanged by changing days,?That's what he'd have you know.
Can you whose eyes not yet are dim?Live o'er the buried past with him,?And see the roses blow?When white-haired men were Joe and Jim?Untouched by winter's snow??Or roll the years back one by one?As Judah's monarch backed the sun,?And see the century just begun?--?That's what he'd like to know!
I come, but as the swallow dips,?Just touching with her feather-tips?The shining wave below,?To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips?And listen to the flow?Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene,?To tread once more my native green,?To sigh unheard, to smile unseen,--?That's what I'd have you know.
But since the common lot I've shared?(We all are sitting "unprepared,"?Like culprits in a row,?Whose heads are down, whose necks are bared?To wait the headsman's blow),?I'd like to shift my task to you,?By asking just a thing or two?About the good old times I knew,--?Here's what I want to know
The yellow meetin' house--can you tell?Just where it stood before it fell?Prey of the vandal foe,--?Our dear old temple, loved so well,?By ruthless hands laid low??Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew??Whose hair was braided in a queue??(For there were pig-tails not a few,)--?That's what I'd like to know.
The bell--can you recall its clang??And how the seats would slam and bang??The voices high and low??The basso's trump before he sang??The viol and its bow??Where was it old Judge Winthrop sat??Who wore the last three-cornered hat??Was Israel Porter lean or fat?--?That's what I'd like to know.
Tell where the market used to be?That stood beside the murdered tree??Whose dog to church would go??Old Marcus Reemie, who was he??Who were the brothers Snow??Does not your memory slightly fail?About that great September gale?--?Whereof one told a moving tale,?As Cambridge boys should know.
When Cambridge was a simple town,?Say just when Deacon William Brown?(Last door in yonder row),?For honest silver counted down,?His groceries would bestow?--?For those were days when money meant?Something that jingled as you went,--?No hybrid like the nickel cent,?I'd have you all to know,
But quarter, ninepence, pistareen,?And fourpence hapennies in between,?All metal fit to show,?Instead of rags in stagnant green,?The scum of debts we owe;?How sad to think such stuff should be?Our Wendell's cure-all recipe,--?Not Wendell H., but Wendell P.,--?The one you all must know!
I question--but you answer not--?Dear me! and have I quite forgot?How fivescore years ago,?Just on this very blessed spot,?The summer leaves below,?Before his homespun ranks arrayed?In green New England's elmbough shade?The great Virginian drew the blade?King George full soon should know!
O George the Third! you found it true?Our George was more than double you,?For nature made him so.?Not much an empire's crown can do?If brains are scant and slow,--?Ah, not like that his laurel crown?Whose presence gilded with renown?Our brave old Academic town,?As all her children know!
So here we meet with loud acclaim?To tell mankind that here he came,?With hearts that throb and glow;?Ours is