Occasional Poems | Page 2

pear;
The mirror of the Powow told
No tale of orchards ripe and
rare.
Wild as the fruits he scorned to till,
These vales the idle Indian trod;

Nor knew the glad, creative skill,
The joy of him who toils with
God.
O Painter of the fruits and flowers!
We thank Thee for thy wise
design
Whereby these human hands of ours
In Nature's garden
work with Thine.
And thanks that from our daily need
The joy of simple faith is born;

That he who smites the summer weed,
May trust Thee for the
autumn corn.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
Let fortune's bubbles
rise and fall;
Who sows a field, or trains a flower,
Or plants a tree,
is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest;
And God and man shall own his
worth
Who toils to leave as his bequest
An added beauty to the
earth.
And, soon or late, to all that sow,
The time of harvest shall be given;

The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow,
If not on earth, at last
in heaven.
KENOZA LAKE.
This beautiful lake in East Haverhill was the "Great Pond" the writer's
boyhood. In 1859 a movement was made for improving its shores as a
public park. At the opening of the park, August 31, 1859, the poem
which gave it the name of Kenoza (in Indian language signifying
Pickerel) was read.

As Adam did in Paradise,
To-day the primal right we claim
Fair
mirror of the woods and skies,
We give to thee a name.
Lake of the pickerel!--let no more
The echoes answer back, "Great
Pond,"
But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore
And watching hills
beyond,
Let Indian ghosts, if such there be
Who ply unseen their shadowy
lines,
Call back the ancient name to thee,
As with the voice of
pines.
The shores we trod as barefoot boys,
The nutted woods we wandered
through,
To friendship, love, and social joys
We consecrate anew.
Here shall the tender song be sung,
And memory's dirges soft and low,

And wit shall sparkle on the tongue,
And mirth shall overflow,
Harmless as summer lightning plays
From a low, hidden cloud by
night,
A light to set the hills ablaze,
But not a bolt to smite.
In sunny South and prairied West
Are exiled hearts remembering still,

As bees their hive, as birds their nest,
The homes of Haverhill.
They join us in our rites to-day;
And, listening, we may hear, erelong,

From inland lake and ocean bay,
The echoes of our song.
Kenoza! o'er no sweeter lake
Shall morning break or noon-cloud
sail,--
No fairer face than thine shall take
The sunset's golden veil.
Long be it ere the tide of trade
Shall break with harsh-resounding din

The quiet of thy banks of shade,
And hills that fold thee in.
Still let thy woodlands hide the hare,
The shy loon sound his
trumpet-note,
Wing-weary from his fields of air,
The wild-goose on
thee float.

Thy peace rebuke our feverish stir,
Thy beauty our deforming strife;

Thy woods and waters minister
The healing of their life.
And sinless Mirth, from care released,
Behold, unawed, thy mirrored
sky,
Smiling as smiled on Cana's feast
The Master's loving eye.
And when the summer day grows dim,
And light mists walk thy
mimic sea,
Revive in us the thought of Him
Who walked on
Galilee!
FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL
The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine
Of fruitful Ceres, charm no
more;
The woven wreaths of oak and pine
Are dust along the
Isthmian shore.
But beauty hath its homage still,
And nature holds us still in debt;

And woman's grace and household skill,
And manhood's toil, are
honored yet.
And we, to-day, amidst our flowers
And fruits, have come to own
again
The blessings of the summer hours,
The early and the latter
rain;
To see our Father's hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn

Of autumn, filled and running o'er
With fruit, and flower, and
golden corn!
Once more the liberal year laughs out
O'er richer stores than gems or
gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
Is Nature's bloodless
triumph told.
Our common mother rests and sings,
Like Ruth, among her garnered
sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,
Her brow is bright with
autumn leaves.

Oh, favors every year made new!
Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine
sent
The bounty overruns our due,
The fulness shames our
discontent.
We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;
We murmur, but the
corn-ears fill,
We choose the shadow, but the sun
That casts it
shines behind us still.
God gives us with our rugged soil
The power to make it Eden-fair,

And richer fruits to crown our toil
Than summer-wedded islands
bear.
Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and
bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board
of home?
Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
Can change a rocky soil
to gold,--
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with
northern ices cold.
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits,
awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the
latter rain!
1859
THE QUAKER ALUMNI.
Read at the Friends' School Anniversary, Providence, R. I., 6th mo.,
1860.
From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine,
Grave men,
sober matrons,